


The Practice of Deceit

by eilonwy



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bets & Wagers, F/M, HP: EWE, Humor, Magic, Muggle Life, Post-Hogwarts, Remix, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-04
Updated: 2013-10-04
Packaged: 2017-12-28 08:54:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 29,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/990124
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eilonwy/pseuds/eilonwy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Oh, what a tangled web we weave, when first we practise to deceive..." </p><p>Written for the 2013 Dramione Couples Remix fest, based on Andie and Ben from "How to Lose a Guy in Ten Days."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

30 May 2008  
Friday afternoon

 

There it was, plain as day: the latest, utterly forgettable bit of fluff that passed for a writing assignment. It was positively maddening.

Hermione threw down her quill in disgust. Here she was, twenty-eight years old and in the so-called prime of her life, and what was she doing for a living? Squandering her considerable intelligence on frivolous inanities, that’s what, when she ought to be putting that much-lauded brain of hers to more productive and meaningful use instead. 

She heaved a deep, windy sigh. How on earth had she managed to get herself lumbered with the title of “How To” girl? 

There was a certain irony, of course, considering that all her life, everyone had always thought of her as an unabashed know-it-all. At the time the first article in the series had been proposed, she had taken a certain perverse pleasure in being able to parlay that commonly held perception into something quite lucrative. Over time, however, it had become a millstone around her neck. She was tired of being the one to whom everyone turned for answers, because invariably, the questions were about nothing she herself gave the smallest rat’s arse about. The plum position she held at _Enchant Me_ magazine had lost its charm.

Maybe, Hermione considered darkly, it was karma biting her in the bum.

Karma or no, enough was enough. She wanted and needed more. The question was how to get it. Her editor, all hard-nosed practicality and the bottom line – selling as many magazines as possible – was distinctly uninterested in running anything with more depth than could be plumbed in the fifteen minutes the average _Enchant Me_ reader needed to digest the magazine’s usual fare. But surely, Hermione reasoned, readers would welcome more substance as long as it was packaged the right way.

Hauling herself up from the swivel chair, Hermione approached her boss's door and put an ear to it. From the sound of the muffled but clearly irritated voice on the other side, she decided that a rather heated Floo conversation was being conducted within. Marshalling her resolve, she counted to ten once silence had fallen again and then knocked.

"Come!" 

Pansy Parkinson sat at her desk behind piles of papers that formed a chaotic relief map over most of its polished surface. At the sound of the door opening, she glanced up and flashed Hermione a knowing grin.

“Right. You want something. It’s written all over your face.” 

She sat back, arms folded across her chest and one eyebrow quirked expectantly, and waited.

Hermione dropped into the chair facing Pansy’s desk. “Well, okay... yes. It’s true, I do want something. The same thing I’ve been wanting for ages. Oh, come _on_ , Pansy...” She fell back against the chair with a frustrated sigh. “If I have to write one more ‘how to’ on Charming the kinks out of frizzy hair or Vanishing ugly facial spots or the five best and most foolproof ways to snag a bloke and keep him perpetually and deliriously happy in bed, I’ll... I’ll _scream_. _Please_ let me write something that really matters! Something with a bit of real substance! You know, an investigative piece maybe... or, say, something about... about the wizarding world a decade after Voldemort! How it’s changed. That could be really fascinating! A series, even!” 

Hermione sat forward in her chair, cheeks flushed and eyes alight. 

“It could be great, I know it could! What do you think?”

Silence hung between them for only a moment before Pansy Parkinson raised a forbearing hand. 

“Hermione.” Her voice was almost painfully patient and understanding. “I know you are itching to try your hand at other things and I’m sure you’d do a wonderful job with something new, but you are the most popular writer we have on staff. Everybody reads your stuff first. No matter what you write about, your word is law to witches all over the country, all over the world, even. Honestly, Hermione, I should think you’d be enormously flattered by such rabid popularity.” Pansy gave a small shrug, her smile carefully wistful and apologetic and her voice soothing. “I’m afraid I really can’t see my way clear to reassigning you. You’re our lynchpin. Without your brilliant ‘how to’ pieces, I expect our sales would plummet, and we can’t risk that, now can we? It’s all your own fault, you know,” she crooned and then paused, her smile faintly evil. “For being so very clever.” 

Hermione’s eyes narrowed. She could swear that Pansy was enjoying refusing her once again, positively relishing the frustrating dead end Hermione had quite literally written herself into by doing such a bang-up job with that first piece of nonsense. It had been a virtual joke at the time, something she had dashed off almost as a throw-away, never imagining readers would take it seriously and then clamour _en masse_ for more of the same. The avalanche of fan mail, many of the Owled messages loaded with questions and semi-hysterical pleas for advice, had spawned a spin-off Q &A column that Pansy had shrewdly tacked on to Hermione’s monthly assignment, thus doubling her workload and simultaneously insuring her commitment. 

If this wasn’t karma laced with a helping of spite and malice from her boss (and gods above, in what fair and just universe did Pansy Parkinson get to lord it over Hermione Granger with impunity??), Hermione couldn’t fathom what was. No doubt Parkinson was savouring every moment of her growing frustration, each month’s vapid new assignment a tiny bit of sweet revenge for every time Hermione’s hand had eagerly shot up at school with the right answer. “Know-it-All” might as well be indelibly stamped on her forehead now, her very own scarlet letter. Pansy had cleverly seen to it that both Hermione’s reputation and the magazine’s survival depended on it.

Glumly, she reflected that in fact, she’d created the monster herself; Pansy had merely recognised it for what it was and run with it, as any sensible editor with an eye on the all-important bottom line would do. The realisation was a cheerless one.

“Off you go, then, darling.” Pansy’s chirp interrupted the dismal train of her thoughts. “Staff meeting Thursday morning, don’t forget. Ideas and a preliminary outline for the new piece then, yes?”

Pansy was already nose-deep in a folder she’d just opened, carelessly waving a dismissive hand in her direction. Silently, Hermione trailed out of the office and down the stairs. Just at the moment, the last place she wanted to be was her own office, where a giant blow-up of her own byline photo would be winking and smiling seductively from its place on the wall behind her desk. She remembered the day that photo had been taken two years earlier, when she’d first come on staff and her column had been brand-new. The photographer had coaxed and cajoled her into posing that way, and rather giddily, she’d acquiesced. Coming across all boldly sexy and sassy had been new and different, sort of a novelty, and fun, even... rather a kick. Certainly different to the way she’d always seen herself. It had seduced her.

_Stupid cow._ What a joke. That flirty image smiling coquettishly from the picture summed her up and defined her no more than the glib articles she was so good at writing. She was ever so much more, and the world had known it once. Somehow, she must find a way to remind everyone that Hermione Granger, war heroine and young woman to be reckoned with, was still in there somewhere.

 

*

 

That evening –

 

“Again?” “Oh, no!” “Rotten git!”

The chorus of dismayed cries rose up around Lavender Brown almost before she could finish her sentence. Wearily, she nodded, flopping back against the sofa cushions.

“I know... I know!” she groaned, flinging an arm up and covering her eyes. “But really, did I do something _so_ awful? Enough that he’d break it off? I mean, I don’t understand. Why shouldn’t I be able to be completely open with a bloke, tell him my innermost feelings. Honesty is a _good_ thing. Isn’t it?” 

She gazed plaintively at her friends, seated in a circle around her, searching their faces for confirmation. It was her turn to host their weekly girls' night – take-away, a sinfully fattening sweet for afters, and plenty of drink – and now they sat comfortably sprawled around her sitting room, the scant remains of their dinner on paper plates, a pair of wine bottles nearly emptied.

“Not when you tell him you feel a deeply cosmic connection to him on the first date,” Ginny snorted. “Come on, Lav, _really?”_

“It wasn’t the first date!” Lavender tossed her head, looking distinctly wounded. There was a pause during which Hermione, Luna, and Ginny looked back at her expectantly. “It was the second,” she muttered sheepishly.

There was a second round of groans laced with snorts of laughter.

“Honestly, Lav!” Hermione sputtered at last between giggles. “Whatever were you thinking?” 

“If you’d wanted to make him turn round and head for the hills, you couldn’t have chosen a more classic exit line!” Ginny shook her head incredulously. 

“Well, _I_ think women should be able to communicate openly and truthfully with the men they are interested in,” Luna interjected. “I always do.”

“And _that_ , love,” Ginny remarked, sitting back and taking a healthy swig from her wine glass, “is why you’re still single as well.”

“Hang on, Hermione’s single, too!” Lavender rejoined hotly. She was well into her cups by now and feeling very little pain.

“That’s true, I am,” Hermione began, but Ginny cut her off.

“She is, yeah, but it’s by choice. She could have any man she wants, trust me. She only has to crook her little finger!” Ginny declared airily.

Hermione found herself blushing, and to cover her embarrassment, she waved a hand and laughed lightly. “Not true, Gin. Well, that last bit, anyway. I am single by choice, though. You’re right about that. But only because I haven’t met a man who truly excites me. They’re all so... so ordinary. So predictable.”

“And quite predictably, they continue to ask you out in absolute droves.” Ginny grinned slyly. “How many invitations did you turn down just last week? Three? Four?”

“Stop! I’m sure it’s just the glamour of the job. And besides, I do go out sometimes!” Hermione protested weakly, her cheeks still pink. “I just haven’t found Mr. Right. It wouldn’t be fair to go out with somebody I have no interest in. I’d be leading him on. It wouldn’t be honest.”

“Aha, so honesty _is_ important, then!” Lavender piped up triumphantly. “See?”

Hermione nodded, helping herself to more wine. “Well, yes, of course, but there’s honesty and then there’s _honesty_. Of the painfully stupid and embarrassing sort. Things you don’t want to say to a man, EVER, when you’re first dating. The sorts of things that are guaranteed to turn a guy off completely. Like...” She thought for a moment. “... asking him if he likes kids and how many he wants to have someday, or how soon he thinks a relationship should be exclusive. Or when a couple should think about moving in together. And it’s not just things women say. It’s also the stuff we do, the absolute deal-breakers in a relationship. We women are guilty of this sort of rubbish all the time.”

“Trying to change a bloke, you mean. Make him over.” Luna nodded. “I’ve done that.”

“Ugh, me too,” Lavender muttered disgustedly.

“Who hasn’t!” Ginny giggled and then gave a philosophical sigh. “I’ve tried to change Harry for the past three years. It hasn’t worked.”

“And it won’t,” Hermione rejoined sagely. Then she stopped, her expression gradually becoming thoughtful and then quietly gleeful. “Hang on, you lot. I’ve just had an idea, and it’s quite brilliant, if I do say so myself. For my next piece, I mean. Parkinson expects another ‘how to.’ Right, well, I’ve got a doozy for her.” _And if I play my cards right…_ she found herself thinking, and then she smiled archly. “Care to do a bit of brainstorming, ladies?”

 

*

 

5 June  
Thursday morning

 

“Hmm...” Pansy tapped one long, sapphire-blue nail against her cheek and furrowed her brows. “A ‘how to’ on the ways women traditionally _sabotage_ relationships…Tell me more.”

Hermione smiled and drew a deep breath. “Right, well, rather than centre the piece on how to hang onto a bloke, which of course would turn into the usual rubbish about ten ways to the most incredible sex of his life and how to make his interests yours, I thought it would be a far more novel approach, and more instructive as well, if the article focused on the classic mistakes women so often make. The things we do that drive men away. I mean, let’s face it, for all our intelligence, we can be pretty thick when it comes to the opposite sex.

“Often, we don’t even make it as far as an actual relationship with a man we like. We’ve already driven him away by being too needy and demanding. It’s overwhelming. But the thing is, women are in total denial about this. Nobody wants to admit that they’re guilty of it. It’s always the bloke’s fault for having commitment issues. I want to wake women up to what they’re doing, so they will finally get it. We can be sexy as hell, we can have all the right moves in bed, but if we’re clutching onto a man like a bloody life raft, that’s it. He’s gone. And we’ve humiliated ourselves.

“I propose,” she continued, her eyes never leaving Pansy’s face, “to conduct an experiment with myself as the guinea pig. Well, me and the man of my choice, whoever he turns out to be. I’ll get him to ask me out and we’ll start dating, and _then_ …” She paused, leaning forward dramatically. “Once I’ve got him firmly wrapped round my little finger, I’ll start doing the things women typically do. I bet I can have him running for the nearest exit in, oh, say… ten days. That should do nicely.” Hermione cocked her head and grinned, raising a hand to frame an imaginary title. “‘How to Lose a Man in Ten Days.’ Like it?”

“You know,” Pansy replied slowly, her eyes narrowing and a faint but decidedly sly smile turning up the corners of her mouth, “I believe I do. It’s quite ingenious, really. When can you get started?”

Hermione grinned. “What about tonight? There’s a new pub near my flat that I’ve been meaning to try. I’ll look in and see if there are any decent prospects.”

“Of course, you could always use one of the blokes here. I know of several who are dying to take you out.” Pansy’s smile deepened as she leaned back in her chair, regarding Hermione thoughtfully.

“Yes, I’ve already thought of that. They’re my fall-backs. I –”

“On the other hand, now that I think of it...” Pansy interrupted blithely, rummaging in a desk drawer and pulling out an elegant, cream-coloured envelope. “I have just the place for you to begin your hunt. There’s a big ‘do’ tomorrow night at the Palladia. Very exclusive charity affair to benefit widows and orphans of the war. The cream of wizarding society will be there. You’ll cover it for _Enchant Me_ – you know... fashion, celebrities, the usual stuff. Perfect cover for this project. I’ll be there in case you run into any difficulties. Bring a friend if you like.” She paused, adding, “Oh – it’s black tie, by the way.”

Hermione looked at her boss quizzically as she accepted the envelope. “Widows and orphans of the war? It’s ten years since the war ended. I had no idea...”

“You wouldn't, would you. It's quite private. But you know as well as I do that certain of the oldest pure-blood families needed quite desperately to redeem themselves after the war, mine included. It was all very hush-hush, very discreet, but they actually did raise quite a lot of money to help people in need in the first several years, and that satisfied the Ministry. Gradually, though, it evolved into… well… an excuse for a big society party. Trés chic.” Pansy sighed expansively. “The fundraising still happens, of course, but really, it’s almost an after-thought at this point.”

Hermione delicately arched an eyebrow and smirked. “I see. Why am I not surprised? All right. I’ll be there.”

“Good. You should have no trouble finding a willing victim in that company.” Pansy turned back to her work, looking up sharply when Hermione didn't move. “What? Something else?”

Hermione smiled pleasantly. “One thing, Pansy. A very small thing, really. _If_ the article is a smash and boosts circulation numbers, as I’m quite sure it will, I want the freedom to write about whatever I want for my next assignment. And in future, the option to do a variety of pieces on topics that really interest me. I mean, after all, I think I deserve that much at least, considering all the revenue I’ve pulled in over the last couple of years. Have we got a deal?”

“And if I say no?”

“Then I’m done. I don’t want to quit, but you’ll be leaving me no choice. Look, I’m not saying I won’t ever write a ‘how to’ again. Just that I want to do more. Something of real value. What do you say?”

Pansy sat back and gazed at Hermione for a very long moment, one finger tapping at her lip speculatively. Then she nodded. “All right,” she replied briskly. “It’s a deal. But circulation numbers will have to hit the roof. So you’d best make this the article of your career. Seven sharp for cocktails,” she called after Hermione’s retreating figure. “Don’t be late!”

 

*

 

6 June  
Friday, late afternoon 

 

“Fucking waste of time!”

“What was that you said?” Lucius Malfoy turned sharply from the mahogany table where he was pouring himself a tumbler of neat firewhiskey and eyed his son, one eyebrow raised. 

Draco’s muttered oath had apparently been louder than he’d realised, and now he flushed slightly. “Sorry. You weren’t meant to hear that.”

“Although you meant every word, of course.”

Draco rolled his eyes, sighing almost inaudibly, and then he turned back to his father, a small muscle pulsing in his jaw. “Look, Father, you know I haven’t the slightest interest in going to this stupid thing. I never have done. I’ve only gone in the past to please you and Mother and to ‘show my face in the proper circles,’ as you have always so succinctly put it. Not that I give a damn anymore about the ‘proper circles.’ I think...” He turned to look his father squarely in the eye, and there was a hint of reckless defiance in the set of his jaw. “Perhaps this year, it’s finally time for _me_ to decide whether I need to show my face or not.”

“That’s what you think, is it? I see. And I suppose our standing in this community no longer matters to you. Well?” Lucius set his drink down with a clink and folded his arms expectantly, his posture ramrod straight and unyielding.

The younger man sighed once again, seeming to deflate just a little bit. “Yes,” he said heavily. “It matters. You know it does. I care very much about the family name. That isn’t at issue. What I don’t give a damn about anymore is all the bloody show that’s involved in keeping up appearances. People know who we are. The Malfoy name still carries a good deal of weight. Why can’t we just go about our business and be left alone?”

“Draco,” Lucius replied stiffly, “it is precisely that attitude of yours, a singular lack of commitment to doing _whatever_ it takes to maintain our position of power, both in society and in the business world, that has me deeply troubled. The fact that you fail to see that they are one and the same is disturbing. You are my son and heir, and as such, you will inherit a great deal someday. I would like to believe that our social standing and the family business matter as much to you as they do to me, and that I can trust you to put our family’s interests before virtually anything else, as I have always done.” 

At Draco’s open-mouthed, silent protest, Lucius held up a hand. “Never mind. I have been watching you for some time now, and your performance at work has been… shall we say… sluggish. Competent, certainly – you have ability – but lacking a certain drive and ambition.” 

He shook his head ruefully. “Perhaps it’s my fault. I made it too easy for you at too young an age. You haven’t felt any real motivation because you haven’t needed to. But you are nearly thirty years old now, and your job is genuinely important. It requires not only mere competence but also a certain passion, a fire in the belly. The advertising branch of Malfoy Enterprises is relatively new, of course, but it has considerable potential, and as it gains a foothold in the market, I expect that it will grow increasingly competitive. I would prefer that to happen with you heading it up someday, but that will depend on whether I see the level of commitment and energy that I expect from a future Director of Advertising.”

How the subject had gone from Draco’s distaste for the social function he was once again being roped into attending to an impromptu job performance review, he had no clue. What he did know was that in a matter of moments, the conversation had gone from merely annoying to downright unpleasant and uncomfortable. Suddenly, he’d been stripped naked and placed under a magnifying glass, and apparently, his father didn’t like what he saw. Well, that was nothing new.

“What exactly are you saying, Father?” 

Lucius walked over to the leather wing chair by the fireside and seated himself, levelling a searching gaze at his son.

“Just this,” he replied. “That it is no longer acceptable for you to coast along in the comfort and security that go along with being my son. I expect more, and I’ve waited five years to see it. That’s more than enough time. I have a project in mind for you, one I think you will find both challenging and enjoyable. If you rise to the occasion and secure the account for us, which won’t be easy, mind you – there will be a lot of competition, no doubt – I will consider that you really are serious about the job, and you will receive a generous pay rise. More importantly, however, you will be on track for the director’s position when Crossley retires.” There was a weighty pause. “Well? Are you interested?”

Silently, Draco moved to the table where a silver tray holding several cut-glass decanters and glasses of varying sizes and types rested and poured himself a generous glass of firewhiskey. Tossing it back in one neat gulp, he let out an involuntarily hiss as the liquor burned a path down his throat. 

“The client?” he asked at last.

There was deep satisfaction and triumph in the senior Malfoy’s smile. “Potentially the most lucrative of all the accounts we’ve handled thus far. You are no doubt familiar with Sidhe?”

“The designer?”

Lucius nodded, taking a sip of his own drink. “Perfumes, colognes, and a line of very pricey clothing. Actually, I believe you are already quite well acquainted with a number of their products, if your attire and the cologne you wear are any indication.”

This was true. Draco enjoyed the finer things, and he’d long appreciated the deliciously rich fabrics and elegant cut of Sidhe’s menswear. Their beautifully designed cloaks alone were worth every Galleon he’d forked out for them. And the scents were bottled elixirs for the gods. He’d often marvelled at the creative genius and skill of their potion-makers. 

“And the product?” 

“A new scent for women. Their potions people claim it’s their most provocative and seductive yet, that only a tiny drop at a pulse point will drive men wild. They need a campaign for it, and they want something fresh, original, daring, even. That’s where you may possibly come in.” 

Draco leaned back against the mantel, an easy grin lifting the corners of his mouth now. Piece of cake, this job. He raised his refilled glass to his lips, still smiling. “I believe I can manage to come up with something they’ll like.”

Lucius shook his head, frowning slightly. “Oh, it must be far more than just ‘something they’ll like,’ my boy. It must captivate them, sweep them off their feet!”

Draco waved a hand airily. “I know women. I reckon I know what will appeal to them.”

Lucius leaned well back in his chair, his faint, mocking smile betraying both scepticism and amusement. “Oh yes? Do you now? I suppose your failed betrothal and the lack of any lasting relationships since then are evidence of your intuitive understanding of the opposite sex?”

His father’s disappointment and fundamental lack of faith in him when push came to shove were familiar thorns in Draco’s side. Resurrected once again, they proved as painful an irritant now as they had been throughout his childhood.

“I’ll prove it,” he heard himself declare stoutly.

“How?” Lucius’ doubts were blatantly obvious now as he arched an eyebrow and folded his arms across his chest.

“I’ll… I’ll make a woman fall in love with me!” 

“Real, head-over-heels love, not just infatuation or physical attraction,” Lucius challenged, and then, his eyes narrowing cannily, he added, “Or gold-digging!”

“The real thing, and I’ll do it by the time of the Midsummer Ball, too!”

The annual Malfoy Midsummer extravaganza was, like their Winter Solstice ball, one for which all stops were pulled out. The champagne would flow freely, everyone who was anyone would be in attendance, and dancing and feasting under the stars would go on until the wee hours. 

Lucius paused for only a moment to consider. “All right. If you succeed, the account is yours to pursue,” he replied agreeably. “Fail, and I will seriously consider awarding the assignment to somebody else. Of course,” he added, his smile becoming a tad sly, “you do realise that the ball is only two weeks away?” 

Draco stared. In point of fact, he hadn’t realised that at all. What the fuck had he just got himself into? Stupid, stupid… he hadn’t thought…

“Do not gape at me like a flounder,” Lucius went on, smiling pleasantly. He was clearly enjoying himself. “I think your proposal is excellent. Two weeks should be more than enough time if your skills with women are all you say. Perhaps you will find a worthy candidate at the party tonight, eh?” He gave Draco a conspiratorial wink and then casually picked up the financial section of the Daily Prophet, disappearing behind it. 

Draco stood rooted to the spot for a moment longer, aghast. He’d just put his entire career on the line with a ridiculous bit of bravado, and his father was relishing every minute of it. Well, he would simply have to succeed. Women liked him, didn’t they? They always had done. In fact, he’d fended off his fair share of them over the years. It couldn’t be that hard, could it, to get one to fall madly in love with him in the next fourteen days. He would get the ball rolling that very evening. Resolved and suddenly infused with a boost of energising confidence, he strode purposefully out of the drawing room.

A few moments later, the door opened and Narcissa Malfoy poked her head in. 

“Well? Is he going tonight?”

“Indeed he is, and not only that, he will also be actively on the hunt for a woman to court,” Lucius informed his wife with studied nonchalance. 

“ _What?_ ” Narcissa prided herself on always maintaining her composure, but now she gawked at her husband openly. This news was almost more than she could fathom. “How on earth did you manage to…”

Lucius’ answering grin was cagey and rather smug in its air of triumph. “Never mind that. Suffice it to say that I’ve dangled a rather juicy carrot in front of his nose and he’s taken the bait. With any luck, we shall have a wedding –”

“And grandchildren!” Narcissa clapped her hands together with unbridled delight.

Her husband smiled indulgently. “Yes, my love, _and_ grandchildren – before very much longer. However, we mustn’t count our chickens just yet. Let us see what tonight might bring.”

With any luck at all, he reflected, this afternoon's little conversation might just dispatch three blast-ended skrewts with one stone. It was a happy thought.


	2. Chapter 2

Virtually all parts of London had their magical sectors, blending in seamlessly and invisibly with their Muggle neighbours. The Palladia, a grand old hotel in the heart of wizarding Mayfair, sparkled like a polished gem tonight. Pansy had been right: the cream of pure-blood society would be there; in fact, they had already arrived in force, and it seemed as if each one were vying to outdo the rest for sheer glamour and visible displays of wealth. 

At ten minutes past seven, Hermione nervously raised fingertips to pat her hair, pulled back into a sleek chignon that rested at the nape of her neck, and pressed her lips together. 

She turned to Lavender, who had begged for the chance to come along with her to the party. “Is my hair all right? Do I need a bit more lipstick, do you think?”

They had just stepped out of the massive marble hearth in the hotel’s foyer, dusting themselves down and looking curiously around at the crowds of people already there. Cloaks were being checked and ladies were preening, fully aware that their gowns and wraps were being scrupulously judged. Who was wearing which designer wasn’t generally of much interest to Hermione, but it had better be tonight, she reminded herself; these festivities would spawn an article, and it would have to sound genuine, even though the whole thing was merely a cover for her true purpose in being there. 

Lavender nodded even as she continued to gaze, starry-eyed, at the glittering assemblage. “You look lovely, Hermione,” she murmured. 

Hermione grinned to herself. It was obvious that her friend hadn’t heard a word, not really. “Thanks,” she said drily. “Let’s get a drink, shall we? I could use one.”

The bar was easy to find. A steady stream of gleaming, perfectly coiffed humanity was making its way towards the adjacent ballroom, where a jazz piano and bass were already providing smoothly mellow mood music without benefit of human musicians. Hermione moved purposefully towards the bar, where a small, thirsty knot of people had already gathered, Lavender trailing in her wake. 

At last she reached the front of the queue. “Ogden’s Old with a splash of soda, please,” she told the bartender. 

“Funny,” a familiar and obviously amused voice behind her drawled. “I’d have taken you for the champagne type. Or perhaps one of those insufferably girly concoctions with the umbrellas. Make that two,” he added, as the bartender moved to retrieve a nearby bottle.

Hermione turned. Draco Malfoy, tall and debonair in dark, beautifully tailored dress robes, smiled sociably at her, having smoothly insinuated himself between her and Lavender only seconds earlier.

She hadn’t seen him in years, not since they’d left school, and really hadn’t heard much about him beyond the usual gossip in the society pages. There had been an engagement some time back, she recalled... to Astoria Greengrass, wasn’t it? Her eyes did a quick sweep of the immediate vicinity, but it appeared that Draco was on his own at this party. Had it ended, she found herself wondering, and if so, when? And why?

The questions were momentarily forgotten as the bartender set her drink down before her and she went to open her handbag for some money. Before she had a chance to withdraw any, however, several long, neatly manicured fingers reached past her with the payment. 

“Allow me,” he murmured. “It’s rare that I have the pleasure of imbibing with a woman who drinks –”

“Like a man?” Hermione took the glass and downed a satisfying sip of the firewhiskey, smiling back serenely. “I do like a drink with some teeth, I must admit. Thank you, by the way.”

“My pleasure. Cheers.” Draco inclined his head slightly and took a pull on his own drink, regarding her with some curiosity. “Frankly, I’m surprised to see _you_ at this charming little shindig. What are you doing here, anyway?”

There didn’t seem to be any malice in his words, but old reactions died hard, and Hermione found herself momentarily flummoxed, uncertain of just how to interpret his intent in asking. And then she suddenly remembered something: Lavender! She’d completely forgotten about her friend. Turning quickly, Hermione spotted her several feet away, flirting with a young man who seemed utterly captivated by whatever she was saying. 

“Since you ask,” she replied at last, having collected herself and relieved that Lavender was happily occupied, “I’m here for my job. I write for _Enchant Me_ magazine, and I’m covering the party for next month’s issue.”

“Hah. I wish I could say I was being paid for being here… I bloody well should be,” Draco muttered, taking a healthy slug of his drink. 

“What do you mean?” 

“Never mind. Not important. So you write for _Enchant Me_ …” He took a moment to scrutinise Hermione, his eyes travelling slowly from her head down to her feet. When he met her gaze again, his smile was appreciative and ever so slightly wolfish. “Now you mention it, I do recall hearing something of the sort a while back… and seeing a publicity photo of you in the Prophet. ‘War Heroine Turns Journalist.’ Or words to that effect.”

“Or words to that effect,” Hermione echoed, more to herself than to Draco. _Journalist._ What a laugh. Frowning briefly, she studied the remaining contents of her glass and then tossed it back in one gulp.

“Do I detect some discontent with your job, Granger?” 

Now there was a worthy question. Perhaps not the right time or place for an entirely honest answer, however, nor the most appropriate person to give it to, although Draco seemed genuinely interested.

“No, not at all. I love my work.” She flashed him a smile whose dazzle was just the slightest bit brittle. “I get to cover all sorts of fascinating events just like this one. Talking of which, I really should mingle a bit. Excuse me, won’t you?”

And with that, Hermione moved off, swallowed up by the crowd. Draco watched her go, oddly disappointed and surprised to find himself so. She was the last person he’d ever have expected to find here, and yet, the one person who’d actually added some spark to a predictably stultifying occasion. 

Not only that. The last ten years had clearly been more than kind to her. In point of fact, he decided, she was looking damned good in that clingy, strapless gown. Curves in all the right places, and Merlin, some pretty luscious cleavage to boot. And she’d finally learnt to tame that incorrigible hair of hers. Pulled back the way she was wearing it, it revealed a slender, white neck and lovely shoulders that begged for his tender attentions. 

Ah well… never in a million years. What was he thinking? The two of them were like oil and water, always had been. He’d be barking up one hell of a wrong tree there, wouldn’t he. The very idea was ridiculous. Draco let out a quiet snort of laughter and then sighed. He was here on a mission with no time to waste, and he might as well get on with it. Somewhere in this ballroom, there was a young lady ripe for his amorous attentions. He merely had to find her.

 

 

*

 

 

“Hermione!” Lavender whispered, tapping her friend’s shoulder for the second time. “I think you’ve got your man.”

Hermione had been scanning the crowd, taking quick notes with her self-writing quill and largely ignoring Lavender. But finally, she turned, faintly exasperated.

“What?”

“I said I think you’ve got your man. You know. For the article.” Lavender’s smile was positively smug. Tilting her head in the direction from which they’d just come, she winked. 

“Who are you...? Wait. No. Surely you don’t mean _Malfoy?_ ” Hermione let out a small giggle and rolled her eyes. “Honestly, Lav!”

“Of course I do.” Lavender drew herself up with complete dignity and folded her arms. “He would be perfect.”

“Oh, yes? And why is that?” Hermione’s natural scepticism gave her tone a sharper edge than she’d intended. One hand on her hip, she raised an eyebrow and waited. 

“ _Well_ ,” Lavender began dramatically, “first off, he was absolutely on the pull with you. _Merlin_ , Hermione, couldn’t you tell? Did you _see_ the way he was looking you over?” Apparently, busy as she had been talking to that young man, Lavender had been acutely aware of Hermione’s conversation with Draco. The girl had eyes in the back of her head, it seemed. 

Without waiting for Hermione’s reply, she rushed on. “He’s interested. Definitely. You won’t have any trouble getting him to take the bait. And besides, wouldn’t it be rather fun to make him jump through a few hoops after all he put you through at school? Turnabout and all that.”

She had a point. There would certainly be distinct pleasure in driving him round the bend – _if_ he were interested in dating her, that is. It all depended on that. And Hermione was by no means as certain of this as her friend seemed to be. 

“Finally,” Lavender told her, grinning imperturbably, “and this is by no means the least important, did you happen to notice how _bloody gorgeous_ he’s become? I mean, he was always a looker, but _now_...”

Point taken yet again. Hermione had indeed noticed. In fact, she’d found herself becoming seriously distracted while talking to him. He was still lean and quite fit, but taller now and a bit broader in the shoulders. And those eyes... she’d never noticed before just what a lovely dove-grey they were. Against the pale hair, now a bit longer and rather rakish-looking, his eyes were arresting. Oh yes. She’d noticed all right.

Perhaps Lav was right. And besides, Hermione decided, she really should have no qualms about using him, considering his well-publicised reputation with the ladies. It would be no more than what he did routinely in relationships, or so she’d heard. Perhaps it would actually be good for him, finally learning firsthand what he’d so frequently put women through. And anyway, in the end, he’d be the one pushing her away, if her little experiment succeeded. That hardly made him the victim. By the time she was through with him, he’d probably loathe her even more than he had as a boy. 

This talk she’d just had with herself had done Hermione no end of good. Decided now, she grinned at Lavender. 

“Okay, yes. Draco Malfoy it is!”

 

 

*

 

 

Narcissa Malfoy smiled with satisfaction as she surveyed the packed ballroom. Members of all the oldest, most affluent and influential pure-blood families were there, enjoying themselves and forking out loads of money as well. If possible, the luxurious jewels and clothing they were showing off were even more eye-popping than at last year’s parade. Of course, this being one of the three most important events of the year’s social calendar – she prided herself on the fact that the other two were Malfoy affairs – the outcome was only to be expected. Still, a good deal of work had gone into putting this evening’s festivities together, and her position as chair of the planning committee meant that a less than stellar outcome would have reflected badly on her more than anyone else.

“Isn’t it wonderful, Lucius!” she enthused, leaning over to catch her husband’s ear. 

The success of the elite tribal ritual unfolding before them mattered every bit as much to Lucius Malfoy, reflecting, as it did, upon him by extension. He knew it and so did everybody else. The smallest failure or gaffe would be fodder for breakfast-table post-mortems the following morning in the better pure-blood households all over wizarding England. So he was tremendously pleased that things were going swimmingly.

“It is indeed, my dear,” he murmured with satisfaction. “However, I have yet to see our son spend any appreciable amount of time with an attractive young woman.”

“Oh, but he did! At least he did for a little while. It was that girl over there, the one in the blue gown.” Narcissa discreetly pointed to the opposite corner of the ballroom, where a clutch of people thronged around the bar, drinks and finger food in hand. “She’s quite pretty, isn’t she. I wonder who she is?”

Lucius peered in the direction his wife was indicating, but wasn’t able to see the girl in question for all the other people around her. All he knew was, Draco wasn’t amongst them.

“She may be pretty, Cissa, but if Draco isn’t interested, it doesn’t matter how attractive she might be.” He frowned slightly, perturbed. “Where is that boy, anyway?”

Narcissa did a quick scan of the room once again and then shrugged. “You don’t suppose he’s left, do you?” she asked, vaguely panicked.

“Not if he knows what’s good for him,” her husband replied darkly and then his face cleared, his faint smile becoming a tad smug. “He well knows on which side his bread is buttered, believe me. It would seem that beneath the apparently lax attitude he takes, he’s really rather ambitious. Until now, he’s simply lacked the motivation to really push himself. I saw the reaction he had to the possibility of heading up his department one day. He knows he’s got to prove himself, and now he’s got himself boxed into a tidy little corner of his own making. 

“His claim that he knows women well enough that he can make one fall in love with him by the time our little Midsummer ‘do' rolls round will be nigh on impossible to prove. I know that. But the very fact that he’s motivated enough to try for it shows me something important about our son. Success matters to him, perhaps far more than he realised, and it seems he’s willing to do whatever it takes to achieve it. Oh, I suspect he’s got an eye to whatever advantage tonight might bring him, my love. I doubt any female under the age of thirty has escaped his notice.” He chuckled. “Nor any under forty, for that matter, if I know our son.”

Narcissa nodded, smiling and reaching for her glass of champagne, when something just beyond the periphery of her vision caught her attention, and her smile became a frown. “Oh dear, there’s Astoria. I was really hoping she would have the good sense and tact not to come tonight. It really is so terribly awkward for both of them. You don’t suppose she’ll make a scene, do you?”

The Greengrass-Malfoy betrothal had ended a year earlier, and nobody knew for certain what had actually transpired between Draco and Astoria, only that Draco walked with a much lighter step afterwards. Not so Astoria. There had been a grimness about her ever since, a sharp cynicism and anger that bubbled just below the surface and often reared its ugly head when least expected. She was a woman scorned, and a year later, still milking the role for all it was worth.

Lucius pursed his lips, following Narcissa’s gaze and discreet hand gesture until he’d located his son’s ex-fiancée, who must have been standing fairly close by only a moment earlier and was now moving off to the other side of the room in Pansy Parkinson’s direction. A few moments later, the two young women were sharing an animated conversation, drinks in hand. Briefly, Lucius wondered whether she might have overheard any part of his conversation with Narcissa. Most likely not, he decided, and even if she had, a few remarks out of context would mean nothing to her. Tossing back his own drink, he resumed his attempts to spot his son in the crowd. 

Just now, in fact, Astoria was finding her conversation with Pansy enjoyable and quite enlightening. Fascinating business, the various doings at the magazine where her friend worked as editor-in-chief. One project in particular had snagged her attention and she pressed Pansy for more details.

“So Hermione Granger is going to deliberately make every mistake in the book to show us women what _not_ to do with men? What a positively original approach! I love it!”

“Yes, it is rather good, isn’t it!” Pansy grinned. “I think it may turn out to be her best work yet. She’s here scouting for a possible prospect as we speak.”

“Is she… Hmm… And how exactly will she go about it?” Astoria took a sip of her newly refreshed drink and fixed a wide-eyed gaze on Pansy.

“Well...” Pansy lowered her voice conspiratorially. “The idea is to hook a chap, get him quite besotted with her, and then send him completely round the twist so that he’ll have no choice but to dump her, all in ten days’ time. It’s quite brilliant, really.”

Astoria giggled. “I should say it is! Poor sod, whoever he is! She’ll be putting him through the wringer! Then again...” A slyly inscrutable expression crossed her face for a moment. “They’ve done it often enough to us women, haven’t they, the rotters! Excuse me for a moment, will you, Pans?”

“Of course...” Pansy began, looking up from her drink, but Astoria had already gone.

 

 

*

 

 

Twelve. He’d actually chatted up twelve different women in the space of the last ninety minutes. Not exactly lightning speed, but definitely quite respectable for a good-looking young man with excellent career prospects, a sizeable inheritance, and a fine old pedigree. All twelve were of solid, pure-blood stock, had loads of old money behind them, pedigrees as long as his arm, and wore very expensive clothing, though not all of them wore it terribly well.

One girl with a pronounced squint kept staring at Draco as if she weren’t quite sure what manner of thing she was looking at. Eventually, near-blindness necessitated that she forego her vanity and put on her glasses at last. A smile of pure relief and delight broke out on her face when she finally got a proper look at the man she’d been talking to. By that time, however, Draco had already begun backing away.

Then there was the one who was a good few inches taller than Draco. He’d had to crane his neck just to keep her face in view. She was nice enough, though whatever she’d had to say hadn’t been worth the painful crick he’d walked away with – not that he could even remember any of it five minutes later.

The rest came in varying packages, but not one of them struck a truly meaningful chord. Frustrated and irritable, Draco repaired to the bar and ordered himself a firewhiskey. A double.

He’d just lifted it to his lips when an all-too-familiar voice sounded behind him.

“Drowning your sorrows, love?”

 _Oh fuck._

He turned, a weary smile plastered on his face, to find his ex-fiancée standing there, arms crossed over her fashionably meagre chest.

“Good evening to you, too, Astoria. Having fun?”

Astoria smiled sweetly. “Oh yes, loads. In fact, I’ve just had the most illuminating conversation with an old friend of yours.”

“Oh? And who would that be?” Draco really couldn’t have cared less, but it was easy enough to make pointless conversation with the stupid cow as long as he had a big drink in his hand.

“Pansy Parkinson.”

“And? What of it?”

“Well...” Astoria paused for dramatic effect, and then, seeing that Draco was apparently oblivious to such obvious theatrics, she pressed on. “She told me something rather interesting – in strictest confidence, of course. Apparently, someone we all know has just been dumped and she’s sworn off men for good.” Astoria sighed plaintively. “Sad, really...”

“And you think this would be of interest to me why?” Draco folded his arms across his chest in a gesture of growing impatience. Perhaps one double firewhiskey wouldn’t be enough after all. Gossip bored him stiff, and this conversation was getting old fast.

“Oh, Draco, surely you don’t imagine I haven’t noticed your rather pathetic attempts at finding suitable female company here tonight. Honestly, darling, I thought you had better taste. You certainly used to, when we were together.”

Grimly, Draco drained his glass and promptly turned to the bartender to order another. “When we were together, it was never a question of taste. Or interest. Or the smallest iota of desire. And you know it. So don’t fool yourself into believing otherwise. We agreed to the betrothal only to please our parents, or I did anyway, and it was the worst mistake of my life. Now, what was it you wanted to tell me? Spit it out.”

Astoria smiled acidly. “Only that the person in question is Hermione Granger, and I know for a fact that you had a thing for her back when we were at school. Oh, don’t look so surprised,” she added, her laughter a grating little tinkle. “Everybody knew it, or at the very least, they suspected, according to Daphne. You weren’t terribly subtle. I imagine the only one who didn’t know was Granger herself. She only had eyes for Ron Weasley, the way I heard it. I wonder... now that Weasley and apparently every other male on the planet are well out of the picture, have you got what it takes to change her mind? Only you can’t let her know that you’ve heard about her breakup. It’s not public knowledge.” 

Astoria wasn’t one for doing gratuitous kindnesses, especially not for ex-fiancés who’d been insufferable enough to do the leaving rather than being left. Draco narrowed his eyes. “Why are you telling me all this? What’s in it for you?”

She batted her eyes at him, pouting prettily. “Absolutely nothing, darling. You and I are over. I accept that now. My goodness, can’t I do you a simple favour without you suspecting me of Merlin only knows what?”

The answer to that question remained to be seen, though Draco suspected that where he was concerned, it would always be ‘no.’ However, he refrained from engaging further, merely replying with a curt, “Thanks.”

Deep in thought as he strode away, the frown on his face was really more of a mask he’d pulled down to hide a sudden flutter of excitement and nerves in his belly. This could be his chance, a truly golden opportunity. Even though she could be incredibly stiff-necked at times, Granger was only human; surely, she would succumb to his considerable charms eventually, despite her resolve to avoid relationships like the plague. He _could_ make it happen, he was sure of it. 

If he succeeded, and he was positive he would, it would be a total win-win for him. In two weeks’ time, he needed to turn up at his parents’ annual Midsummer ball with a lovesick woman on his arm, proof positive that he knew women and what made them tick, and most importantly, how to make one woman in particular deliriously happy. He’d get a crack at the Sidhe account and a tidy pay rise, he’d prove that he deserved to be tapped for department head when the time was right, and – the icing on the cake – he’d have the chance to enjoy the girl he’d secretly desired for ages.

Suddenly, life was good. Or it soon would be, once he’d found Hermione Granger and asked her out. With mounting eagerness, he searched the ballroom, looking for a slinky, ice-blue gown and the beautiful girl wearing it.

 

 

*

 

 

He caught up with her just as she was preparing to step into the hearth in the hotel’s foyer. 

“Granger, wait!” 

Hermione turned around, Floo powder in hand. Her eyes widened for a fraction of a second and then she smiled. “Hello. We meet again.”

Not the most original line, she thought with momentary chagrin, but Malfoy didn’t seem to mind. In fact, he seemed positively delighted that she’d just handed him such a well-worn cliché.

“We do indeed,” he agreed, smiling back. “Have a nice time tonight, did you? These things can be rather a bore.” He chuckled ruefully as he extended an arm to her. “Believe me, I know. I’ve attended far too many. Are you off home now?”

She nodded. “Yes, it’s late, and I still have work that needs doing.”

“At this hour on a Friday night? Parkinson is a slave driver!” Draco chuckled again. “Why am I not surprised at that? Look here – I was wondering – can I see you home?”

Hermione laughed out loud then. “Malfoy, it’s just the Floo. Surely I can manage not to get lost between here and my own fireplace!”

“Yes, of course,” he said, taking her elbow and manoeuvring her away from the huge, marble hearth. “I had something different in mind. I’d like to take you home Muggle-fashion. Gives us more time to... talk. Where exactly do you live?”

Right, as if Malfoy would even know the part of London where her flat was, Hermione found herself thinking. “I’m in Notting Hill, actually. Not exactly walking distance, I’m afraid. We’d have to take a taxi. Or the Tube,” she added, and then a wicked gleam came into her eyes. “Ever take the Tube, Malfoy?”

Draco shook his head. “Haven’t had the pleasure thus far. What exactly is it?”

“You really don’t know, do you!” Hermione was plainly incredulous. “It’s an underground train system that runs all over London. Quite extensive. The oldest one in the world, I think. It dates back to the time of Queen Victoria. What do you say, Malfoy? Are you game?”

The only possible answer to this was “yes.” Draco didn’t much fancy the notion of travelling below ground, especially on trains that were over one hundred and fifty years old – the very idea seemed completely absurd and seriously reckless – but he couldn’t very well refuse. There was his manly pride to think of. Besides, such an antiquated means of transport would surely give them even more time together, and that was a good thing.

So he nodded. “Lead on. Is it free, by the way? Because I haven’t any Muggle money.”

“No worries,” Hermione laughed. “I’ve got the fare.”

Exiting the hotel into Carlos Place, Hermione walked decisively, Draco trailing alongside her while looking around, mesmerised, at the strange, new sights that were at the heart of Mayfair. It certainly was a lively area, he observed, and a quite posh one as well. Very nice indeed, he found himself thinking approvingly. 

They passed Grosvenor Square with its public gardens, and had just turned into busy Oxford Street when Hermione pointed suddenly.

“There,” she announced. “That’s the station we want.” Slipping her arm through his, she grinned. “Come on, Malfoy. Your very first Tube ride awaits.”

 

 

*

 

 

Trudging up the steps from the station into the cool, fragrant night air was, Draco decided, like an ascent from the Underworld. He had no desire to look back for even an instant, so thankfully, his safe return was assured. 

Okay, yes, he supposed that analogy was just a bit unfair, something of an exaggeration. It hadn’t really been all that bad. He’d certainly been through much worse than the deafening noise of the trains as they’d screeched and juddered and rumbled through the station past the people waiting patiently on the platform. Being trapped in a narrow, cylindrical tube with a horde of strangers, presumably all Muggles (and what were so many of them doing out so late at night anyway?) – some of them swaying on the balls of their feet with the movement of the train, vacant-eyed, or dozing, slack-jawed and nearly boneless – hadn’t exactly been fun, but it was something new, and he’d survived it. Granted, it had been a relief to discover that no, the trains were not relics from the Victorian era, that they were in fact quite modern and could move surprisingly fast, considering they were Muggle-made. Hermione had giggled, disabusing him of that notion, and then she’d looped her arm firmly through his and propelled them both into the train carriage when it arrived, making sure that he was careful to mind the gap. 

There had been three stops before theirs. Signs for Marble Arch, Lancaster Gate, and Queensway had flashed by on the curved, white-tile tunnel walls before their own stop eventually came into view. 

“Come on, this is us,” Hermione had said, tugging on his elbow. 

“Notting Hill Gate,” he’d read out loud as they exited the train. “So this is where you live, then?”

She’d nodded, suppressing a grin. “In Notting Hill, yes. ‘Notting Hill Gate’ is just the name of the Tube stop.” She pointed ahead to a spot where a steady stream of people were pressing together to mount some sort of contraption that took them up to the next level. “The escalator is just over there.” 

The escalator. Another thing he found himself still marvelling over, even now that they had left the Underground station behind. A moving staircase, of all bloody things. And not magical, not even a little bit. Who would have thought it? Clearly, he had a lot to learn about the Muggle world. 

Before long, they arrived at Pembridge Crescent, a road lined with big, old trees and very stylish houses, many of them quite large and built of white brick. Hermione pointed to number three. “The house has been subdivided. I’ve got one of the flats in the rear. It’s a studio.” At Draco’s blank look, she grinned. “You’ll see.”

“Small” was putting it generously, Draco decided, looking about at the rather economical use of space in Hermione’s compact studio flat. It consisted of one fair-sized room, double height, divided into a sitting area and a kitchen, all very modern and airy thanks to lots of large windows, and filled with collections of art and books that invited a much closer look and bespoke the tastes of someone who didn’t gravitate towards the ordinary. But what made it especially distinctive was the open, natural-wood staircase that led up to an alcove overhead; located directly above the kitchen area, it had a lovely, large skylight in the ceiling through which he supposed warm sunlight would illuminate the queen-sized bed during the day. Now, looking straight up from where he stood downstairs, he could see clusters of stars and a sliver of moon. The loo, he discovered upon investigating further, was tucked away behind the stairs. Neat and tidy, all of it. And small enough to fit into the great hall at Malfoy Manor several times over. 

“Where does this go?” he asked, resting his hand on the knob of a door in the kitchen area.

“Into the garden. Would you like to see it? It’s small, but quite nice.” Hermione paused, and at his nod, she opened the door and they stepped through to the narrow back stairs that led down to the garden. It consisted of a small, bricked area containing a wooden bench and a large, ornately carved stone planter that had turned green with age and the mossy growth that had gradually crept over it. In it was an assortment of large and small plants, some of them quite neat and others overflowing their clay pots with long, tangled vines and colourful flowers. A grapevine wreath hung slightly askew over the door.

Hermione gestured towards the bench, and dutifully, Draco sat down. 

“Would you like something to drink?” she asked politely, still standing.

He nodded. “Love it. What have you got?” Reaching up, he undid the hated tie so that it hung down loosely on either side of his stiff shirt collar.

“What about a shandy? That’s a lovely drink for a summer night.”

“Excellent.” Draco sighed pleasurably, leaning back and stretching out his long legs before him. The air was soft and fragrant with the many flowers, and a quiet breeze rustled the dense foliage.

Hermione had disappeared into her flat to get the drinks, and Draco had just time enough to close his eyes for a few blessed moments before the sound of the door opening roused him. She had returned, but not in the same clothing in which she’d left. Now, she wore a red henley shirt made of soft, close-fitting cotton, the top buttons carelessly undone so that he could see the hollow of her throat and a bit of her collarbone, and a pair of jeans that seemed moulded to her body. Her feet were bare and it was obvious from the way her breasts were outlined beneath the thin shirt that she wore no bra. Freed from the constraints of the chignon, her hair now tumbled over her shoulders in a luxuriant, shiny mass. 

In her hands, balanced carefully, was a tray with a pair of tall glasses filled to the brim with a golden liquid. She held it out so that he could take one of the glasses, then took the other one herself and sat down beside him. 

“A toast, Granger.” Draco raised his glass with a playful grin. “To me!”

Hermione began to laugh. “Oh gosh! Not _too_ ego-driven, are we! And why are we drinking to you, may I ask?”

“Simple. It’s my birthday.”

Hermione’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “Today? Really?” 

“Yesterday, technically.” He grinned. “But when your birthday falls on a Thursday, you get to celebrate the entire weekend. Malfoy family rule. So, bottoms up, Granger!” Touching his glass to hers, he took a generous gulp of his drink, swallowing and sighing with immense satisfaction. So far, the evening was going better than he could possibly have imagined.

“Happy birthday, Draco,” Hermione said softly. “Many happy returns.” 

They sat quietly together for several minutes, enjoying their drinks in the pleasant balminess of the early-June night. And then, Hermione put her glass down and turned to Draco. In the shadowy half-light, her eyes were large and luminous.

“What now?” 

He replied without hesitation. “I’d like to see you again. Is that all right?”

And then she asked a question he couldn’t have predicted.

“Why?”

Caught off guard, Draco found himself scrambling for an answer that would advance his agenda most fruitfully. What could he say that would make sense to a woman like Hermione Granger? In the end, the answer was simple. He knew, suddenly, that the unvarnished truth would work like a charm.

“Because you mystify me. You always have done. Ever since we were eleven years old, I’ve been trying to work out just who you are and why. What makes you tick. How you’ve managed to frustrate my attempts to make sense of you all these years, and why it matters to me.”

“Why _does_ it matter to you, Malfoy?” she asked quietly. 

“Damned if I know,” he replied with a small shrug. “But apparently, it does. So what do you say? Can I see you again? For a proper date?”

Hermione gave him a tiny smile that crept around her mouth and quirked the corners upwards in spite of herself. There was a faint flush in her cheeks now and her eyes were very bright.

“When?”

Perfect. He had her. “Tomorrow?” he answered promptly. No point in wasting valuable time. Might as well get the ball rolling. “I’ll come round to collect you at noon, yeah?”

Hermione nodded, her smile growing. It was delightfully shy. “Okay. I’ll expect you then.” And then she did something he hadn’t expected. Leaning in close, she allowed her lips to brush the tip of his ear, and suddenly, there was the delicious scent of her perfume and the warmth of her body very close to his as she whispered in his ear, “Don’t keep me waiting.”

Bossy. Hmm. She’d always been like that, but now, there was something rather titillating about it, especially when she blew lightly in his ear before withdrawing to her seat on the bench once again, her mouth still curved in that that provocative, come-hither smile. Oh gods, that was it. He could feel himself growing painfully hard with desire and need that would not, he suspected, be relieved tonight unless it was by his own hand. 

Suddenly, he needed that relief immediately. It was late, they’d had their drink, and there was a plan in place for tomorrow. Time enough then to take things to the next level. And besides, didn’t women prefer not to be rushed by an over-eager, over-sexed bloke? He would take his time. His restraint would stand him in good stead.

He stood abruptly, hoping she hadn’t noticed the prominent bulge in his trousers.

“Reckon I ought to go.” He grinned sheepishly, certain now that she must have noticed. “It’s late and you must be tired. I know I am. I’ll just Apparate from here, if that won’t be a problem.” 

“No, not at all,” she said, smiling and shaking her head. “The garden is enclosed by a high wall. It’s totally private.” Then she moved closer, so close that her warm breath tickled his face. “Goodnight, Draco. Thank you for seeing me home.” 

And then she kissed him. It was sweet and brief, the barest touch of her lips to his, but oh, how he wanted more! Stepping back, he swallowed hard, closed his eyes, took in a deep, steadying breath, and vanished.

Hermione sat back down on the bench with the remains of her drink and slipped it slowly, thoughtfully. Then she smiled to herself with satisfaction. He would be back. Step one: complete.


	3. Chapter 3

7 June  
Saturday afternoon  
Day One

 

At precisely noon, there was a knock at Hermione’s kitchen door. When she pulled it open, she found Draco standing there on the landing, holding a bunch of perfect miniature roses in a veritable rainbow of colours.

At her questioning look, he gave her a cocky grin. “From my mother’s conservatory. She grows all sorts of stuff. She’ll never miss them.” 

He handed the bouquet to her and she accepted it, drawing it up to her nose for a sniff. 

“Oh, they’re heavenly! I’ve never smelt roses so sweet! Thank you. I’ll just put them in some water… Please come in!”

He followed her into the kitchen, where she found a brightly painted ceramic vase in a cupboard and filled it with water. Carefully, she put the roses in one at a time, and then fanned them out.

“There! Lovely!” she said with satisfaction, standing back at last and examining her handiwork. Then she turned to Draco. “What shall we do today? Have you got something in mind?”

“I do, actually. I suspect there’s a lot more to you now, ten years later, than what I remember from school. I’d like to get to know you better. So...” He quirked an eyebrow. “What would you be doing today if I weren’t here?”

“Well…” Hermione began slowly, pausing to think. “It’s a really nice day, so maybe the outdoor market in the Portobello Road for a bit… lunch somewhere… and I’ve been wanting to have a look at a new bookshop that’s just opened. That sort of thing.”

“Right, then,” Draco replied briskly. “That’s what we’ll do.” With a flourish, he offered her his arm. “Shall we? I’m yours to command.”

 

*

 

The weekly Saturday street fair/outdoor market in the Portobello Road was an experience Draco decided he probably wouldn’t regret missing too much if he’d never done it. Throngs of people clogging the road and creating periodic bottlenecks when bunches of them clustered at the various vendors’ tables and booths had caused him to suffer a bout of claustrophobia and the resulting quiet, but very real, panic attack. Noticing his suddenly rigid posture and blank expression, Hermione had grabbed him by the arm, pulling him away from the press of the crowds onto the pavement.

“Thanks,” he’d muttered, keenly embarrassed. “I’m okay. Don’t much fancy crowds is all.”

As uneasy as the large numbers of people frequenting the market had made him, he had to admit that taken as a whole, the experience had been rather entertaining as well. The kaleidoscopic variety of things on offer had been mind-boggling, for one thing, and he discovered that he enjoyed the odd finds he’d made here and there, though the practice of haggling had surprised and eluded him. And then there were the people themselves, or some of them, anyway: a collection of humanity’s weirdest, all kitted out in some truly bizarre outfits, not to mention the unexpected assortment of quite strange hair colours and body piercings. If he hadn’t known better, he’d have bet money that at least some of them were closet wizards, judging from the sheer Other-ness they manifested, not at all what he’d have expected from a bunch of Muggles out shopping on a Saturday afternoon. It was truly a show.

What he enjoyed most, however, was Hermione’s delight and excitement over the various things she’d unearthed. He understood now where much of the quirky stuff he’d seen in her flat had likely come from and that each piece must mean a great deal to her.

The bookshop they’d stopped in afterwards had been much more to his liking; it was quiet, apart from a recording of a piano concerto playing in the background, the air redolent of enticing savouries and baked sweets – there was a café in the back of the shop, offering some wonderful lunch choices – and, most of all because, being a bookshop with an extraordinary collection of cookery books, it had apparently inspired Hermione to make a surprising and very inviting offer.

“I love to cook,” she’d declared over coffee and sandwiches in the café. “And I fancy I’m pretty good at it. I could make dinner for you sometime, if you like.”

Bloody hell. Would he!

“Thanks, I’d like that very much,” he’d replied, managing to stifle a triumphant grin, and then he pressed his advantage home. Time was of the essence, after all, and this was too good an opportunity to let languish in the vague land of ‘sometime.’ “When?”

“Oh!” Hermione had exclaimed, momentarily nonplussed. “I hadn’t thought specifically, but okay... what about tomorrow night, then?” 

Draco had furrowed his brow in mock concentration. “Tomorrow night... hmm, I shall have to consult my appointment book...” He chuckled then, shaking his head. “I’m joking; it sounds great, honestly. Don’t worry about the wine. I’ll take care of that. My place this time, yeah?” 

She’d nodded her agreement, cheeks flushing prettily, and Draco had smiled to himself as they’d finished their coffee and stood to leave. Flowers, wine, a quiet dinner for two in his flat… what could be more romantic? It was a recipe for success that could prove truly spectacular if he played his cards just right. 

There was no doubt in his mind that he would.

 

*

 

8 June  
Sunday, early evening  
Day Two

 

They’d agreed a time for the dinner – half seven – and now Hermione bustled about her kitchen, gathering the ingredients she’d need to prepare the meal she’d planned so carefully. Everything would go into the large wicker basket currently sitting on her kitchen table, and then she and the supplies would travel by Floo straight to Malfoy’s kitchen. 

She’d learned that he owned a townhouse in Wren Street, Bloomsbury, part of a small, very fashionable and no doubt pricey wizarding enclave surrounding St Andrews Gardens, once a burial ground and where even now, sarcophagi still stood and old gravestone slabs leaned against the high stone walls that formed its perimeter. Hermione loved Bloomsbury, and she’d always wondered what many of its lovely and gracious Georgian townhouses looked like on the inside. Now she would have a chance to find out. That it was also a wizarding community, another small pocket of London’s magical folk hidden in plain sight, only made the prospect of exploring it close up more intriguing. 

She checked the clock on the wall. Nearly half past seven. Time to go. Everything was well in hand; tonight, she would kick things up a notch or two. She had eight days left to get the job done in order to validate the premise of her article. An awful lot was riding on this – her entire career, really. She just _had_ to get it right.

The basket was packed, and now she took a quick look at herself in a nearby mirror. Hair: a warm, sun-kissed, chestnut brown, swept up into a ponytail, tendrils softly framing her face. Very light on the makeup, just a bit of mascara to accentuate her already long, dark lashes, some bronzer and a lick of lip gloss, because she sensed he preferred the natural look. Check. Her favourite little hot-pink t-shirt, snug-fitting and cut quite low, marvellous for showing off a good tan and her very healthy cleavage, and a very cute, very short khaki skirt. ‘Let’s see how long he can resist a pair of tanned and nicely toned bare legs,’ she thought smugly, if a bit immodestly. She’d been working on the tan (okay, she’d cheated – it had come from a bottle) all weekend, and now she had a healthy, bronzed glow all over. Literally all over, in fact. He could draw his own conclusions – when the time came, that is. Not tonight, however. Way too soon for that.

Grasping the handle of the basket in one hand and fisting a handful of Floo powder in the other, she stepped into the small hearth in the sitting-room end of the studio. 

“Number four Wren Street, Bloomsbury!” she sang out, and promptly vanished in an explosion of green flames.

Meanwhile, Draco had been puttering about his house, unaccountably nervous. Not that there was the slightest reason to be. Tonight was going to go perfectly. Every ingredient was in place. 

The table had been set in the cool, shady garden behind the house, adorned by stunningly beautiful and fragrant flowers (again, shamelessly filched from his mother’s gardens) arranged in a cut-glass vase. Best china and silver, beautiful crystal, immaculate linens. Back in the kitchen, an excellent Chardonnay was chilling in the wine bucket and a vintage Claret breathing on the sideboard. Just for the sake of choice, because he had no idea what Hermione planned to cook. Best to be prepared for any eventuality. It had been quite a lot of effort, getting the already-spotless house and garden absolutely perfect and ready for company. Thank Merlin for Scabius, his trusty house-elf. 

Draco glanced at the clock on the sitting room mantel. It was nearly time. She’d be here soon. Feeling his palms becoming slightly sweaty, he wiped them on the seat of his jeans and then patted savagely at his newly washed hair. Bloody cowlick. It _would_ pop up just when he wanted to look his absolute best. Otherwise, though, he felt reasonably confident that he was looking good. The jeans fit him like a snugly soft, well-worn glove, and the crisp, white button-down shirt showed off his newly tawny complexion. Note to self: unbutton the top few buttons and roll up the sleeves to just below the elbow. He’d been told by several women that he had exceptionally attractive forearms (thankfully, the bloody Dark Mark had faded to barely a hint of what it had been years before). And leave off the shoes. Barefoot=sexy. Or so he’d been told. No doubt that before too long, he’d make short work of her shoes as well.

Suddenly, Draco heard a voice calling from inside his kitchen. He hurried there just as Hermione was setting down a large basket and brushing herself off. _Gods._ She looked good enough to eat, and it was all he could do not to grab her and plant a big kiss on that lovely, glistening mouth. However, self-restraint was the order of the day, at least for the time being. He would see how far he could push the boundaries a bit later, after a couple of glasses of wine had relaxed her remaining inhibitions.

On the other hand, a modest embrace would not go amiss, and Hermione seemed to be thinking much the same thing, because they stepped toward each other at the same moment.

“Hello,” he said softly, clasping her hands and leaning down to nuzzle the tip of her nose with his own.

A becoming blush heightened Hermione’s already high colour, and she smiled winsomely up at Draco. “Hello yourself. I hope you’re hungry! I’ve brought loads of food.”

Releasing her, Draco stepped back, looking over her shoulder at the sizeable basket that now sat on his kitchen table. “Famished, actually. What’ve you got there, anyway?”

“You’ll see,” she replied merrily, clearly pleased both with herself and the prospect of what lay ahead that evening. 

“Shall I… do you need any help? If you like, I can instruct Scabius to be completely at your disposal.”

Hermione slanted a teasing, sloe-eyed grin in his direction. “Oh, and here I thought you were going to offer your own services, Malfoy. Have you ever cooked even the simplest meal for yourself? Or have you always had some poor, beleaguered house-elf at your beck and call?”

Suddenly, Draco found himself feeling somewhat defensive and even a bit embarrassed, though why he should feel either, he really couldn’t imagine. There was nothing at all wrong with having a house-elf or two. Or more, if one so desired it. After all, they wanted the work – they thrived on it, in fact – and wouldn’t know what to do with themselves without it. It had always been so and it would always be so, no matter how long or loudly certain sexy, pain-in-the-arse social crusaders might campaign to change that. And hell, it wasn’t as if he mistreated them. He wasn’t his father, after all. However, allowing himself to be baited wasn’t an option. And he was nothing if not clever. Finessing her question was actually quite simple.

“Oh, always,” he replied airily. “I’m really fairly hopeless in the kitchen, you know. No idea what I’d do without Scabius. Probably starve. But you won’t let that happen tonight, will you, Granger?” And he flashed her his most disarmingly rakish grin. 

It wasn’t the reply Hermione had expected, and for the briefest moment, she was caught off guard. Then, a small, sly smile crept across her face. “Trust me, your death won’t be from anything you eat. I may want to kill you at some point, but I would never ruin perfectly good food to do it.” 

The smile blossomed into something ravishing as she gazed with round-eyed innocence at Draco, and he could feel his insides turning to jelly. That, and the first movement in a symphony of persistent hard-ons that would besiege him over the course of the evening. 

“I’m relieved to hear it. Well..." He sighed elaborately. "I’ll just leave you to it, then. Let me know if you need anything, yeah?” And with that, Draco repaired to the sitting room, leaving Hermione to her own devices.

“Oh, I almost forgot!” he called back over his shoulder as he prepared to make himself comfortable with a book. “Help yourself to some wine, if you like. I’ve left a red and a white out, as I didn’t know what you’d be cooking. Have some of both if you fancy it. Glasses are in the cupboard above your head.”

“Thanks, Malfoy!” came the voice from the kitchen. “But I never drink when I’m cooking.”

 _No?_ Draco smiled to himself. He didn’t believe that for an instant. “Right, well, you don’t mind if I have something whilst I wait, do you?”

“Not at all,” she called back. He could hear her bustling about, briskly opening and closing cupboard doors and drawers. Clearly, she was making herself quite at home. He smiled to himself. Ever the one to take charge, that was Granger, and she hadn’t changed. The sound, a few moments later, of a cork being carefully removed from its place in the neck of a bottle belied what she’d just declared so emphatically. His smile deepened. So… just maybe, Granger was a closet tippler. All the better. Defenses habitually breached were that much easier to break down.

In the mood for something a bit more potent, Draco poured himself a whiskey with just a dash of soda, settling into the overstuffed armchair. Stretching out his legs on the hassock, he heaved a contented sigh as he opened his book; he could hear Hermione humming tunelessly to herself as she cooked, and before long, delectable smells began to waft into the sitting room. Perking up, he sniffed several times, visions of mouthwatering creations filling his head. What was that? Fish? Yes, that was it. And... something rich with butter and cream... mmm... oh, and... 

He sat up a bit straighter and took a deep whiff of the fragrant air. Wine, definitely. She’d married a dry white to the butter and cream. Suddenly, his mouth filled with anticipatory juices and he swallowed, licking his lips.

“All right in there?” he called out hopefully after some time had passed, rising from his chair and poking his head through the louvred doors that separated the kitchen from the sitting room.

“Oh yes! Nearly ready!” She had her back to him, but there was a smile in her voice. He could hear it. Then she whipped around, brandishing a wooden spoon like a wand and advancing on him with a mock frown. “Out you go, Malfoy! This kitchen is strictly off limits until I say so!”

His mouth twitched with barely concealed amusement even as he backed away. “You mean I mustn’t try to –”

“Absolutely not! I’m the cook here, and it’s a surprise. OUT.” And with that, she gave him a decided shove, shutting the door in his face.

Bossy little thing, wasn’t she, acting as if this were her domain and he the interloper. No great surprise there, either. It was oddly comforting, though, knowing that some things about her remained the same even after so many years – all the more, he reflected, considering that those had been the very things about her that he’d detested as a boy. Was there more about him that seemed different to her now, he found himself wondering suddenly, or was he coming across to Hermione as essentially the same spoilt brat he’d been at school? 

A moment later, his reverie was interrupted when she opened the doors and stuck her head out with a grin. “Dinner!”

Draco followed Hermione outside, where the entire garden was now bathed in the warm glow of clusters of faery lights he’d instructed Scabius to arrange there. Perfect. 

Wine had been poured (she’d chosen the Chardonnay, he noticed), and there was a lovely play of light from the hovering faeries in the pale gold of each glass. Each plate held a pair of crepes dressed in a delicate cream sauce and garnished with a sprinkling of fresh herbs. Alongside the crepes was a salad of baby spinach and tomatoes in a light, flavourful balsamic vinaigrette.

“Sit!” she commanded, looking as secretly pleased with herself as the Cheshire cat.

Dutifully, Draco took his seat, spreading a soft, damask napkin neatly on his lap, and let out a low, appreciative whistle. “Bloody hell, Granger.”

“Hermione,” she corrected softly, the gleam in her eye suggesting all sorts of intriguing possibilities.

He inclined his head with mock gravity to mask the small thrill that flared inside him. “Hermione.” And then, “These crepes look absolutely incredible. What’s in them?”

Hermione quirked that secretive smile again. “Have a taste and see if you can guess.”

“Right, then.” Carefully, he cut a piece from one of the crepes and popped it into his mouth. And oh, Merlin... it was beyond merely exquisite... it was _sublime_. 

“Salmon, yeah?”

She nodded.

“And... asparagus!” He took a second bite, chewing thoughtfully. “Am I tasting nuts of some sort?”

She nodded again. “Almonds. What else?” 

“Onions, I think... capers, sage... a bit of the Chardonnay in a cream and butter sauce... Mmm...”

“Very good. You’ve got just about all of it. It’s my own recipe, you know,” she added, obviously pleased. “Do you... do you like it?”

Draco moved his chair very close to Hermione’s and rested a hand on her arm, his fingers warmly encircling her small wrist; holding her gaze silently for a moment, he spoke at last, his voice thrillingly low.

“Like it? This is quite possibly the most delicious thing I’ve ever tasted. Words fail me. This is truly food for the gods. Although just now...” His voice trailed off as he moved even closer; their faces were nearly touching now, illuminated by the flickering light of the faeries. “Just now, I’m not sure what I’m hungrier for, those crepes or you...”

He bent his head, just managing to lightly catch her mouth with his own when, to his disappointment, she moved back. But that provocative light was still in her eyes, and, encouraged, he moved in again for a second try. Quickly, she laid a light finger on his lips, stopping him once more.

“Dinner first. It would be such a shame to let it spoil,” she said softly, running her fingertip sensually across his bottom lip before withdrawing her hand. And then she smiled, and it was just sweetly naughty enough that his insides lurched crazily. “Pudding later.”

Indeed. Though just how “pudding” would be defined remained to be seen. It wasn’t long before he found out. Once again, he was exiled to the sitting room just long enough that a beautiful trifle appeared on the dinner table, its peaks and folds of snowy whipped cream like small mountains blanketing gleaming layers of fresh strawberries, jam, crushed almonds and tender slices of peach liqueur-soaked cake, the entire creation dusted with dark chocolate shavings and topped with whole berries. Freshly brewed coffee steamed invitingly from china cups. Scabius had set them out earlier, correctly anticipating the need, and once again, Draco silently blessed the day the wizened little house-elf had come to him.

Afterwards, Draco wasn’t certain whether it was the two additional glasses of wine he’d drunk or the rather generous second helping of trifle Hermione had pressed upon him, replete with a fair amount of peach liqueur, that had done him in. But whatever it had been, he was out like the proverbial light by half ten, waking up on the sofa an hour later, his head pounding dully, to find the kitchen spotless, leftover food stored neatly away in his fridge, and Hermione gone. 

Oh, and a note.

She’d left it on the door, a pale blue Post-it (he supposed that certain Muggle habits died hard, if at all). “Dear Draco,” it read. “You seemed awfully tired suddenly, so I thought it best to let you sleep. I had a really lovely time, though. Thank you. Hermione.”

He shouldn’t have been surprised, really. There had been quite a lot of alcohol, all things considered. The whiskey and soda he’d had before dinner, all the wine during the meal and in the food itself, the liqueur in the trifle and the dessert wine… all of it put together could have flattened a horse. It had certainly been enough to knock him out cold. 

Now that he thought back, though, Granger hadn’t had anywhere near as much as he’d had. She’d been far more circumspect, still nursing her drink whenever he’d been ready to refresh his completely. ‘Hah, that’ll teach me,’ he thought dismally. ‘Reckon I can’t hold it the way I used to.’

He’d blown his chance with her tonight, but that only made him all the more eager to have another go. If she’d let him, that is. Well, he’d just have to be doubly charming and persuasive, making sure to nail down another date as soon as possible. Twelve days remained before the Midsummer Ball.

 

*

 

In Hermione’s small garden, the evening air was balmy and fragrant with the sweet scent of lilacs and honeysuckle. She sat in the dark and quiet, breathing in the perfumed air and reflecting back on the evening with Malfoy. Overall, things had gone beautifully. He’d been charming, quite the perfect host, allowing her full sway in his kitchen. Surprisingly, he hadn’t even batted an eye at the comment about his dependence on house-elves. That in itself had been just slightly alarming, but it was early days yet. Far too soon to panic over an unexpectedly gracious response to some pretty basic rudeness on her part. 

On the other hand, he’d been more than cooperative regarding his alcohol intake. In fact, things had turned out even better than she could have hoped. Conveniently, he’d actually passed out cold. She smiled a bit wistfully, thinking of how surprisingly angelic he’d looked lying there on the sofa, his fringe of pale hair partially obscuring his eyes, an arm thrown recklessly over his head. He had quite long lashes, ones any girl would envy; they rested, dark and luxuriant, on his flushed cheeks. His mouth in repose was soft, his full, sensual lips relaxed and turned up in the beginnings of a smile, perhaps in response to a pleasant dream. Though she doubted it. He’d drunk far too much to be dreaming about much of anything. And he’d wake up with a nasty hangover, that was certain. 

It might take him a while, but there was a fair chance he’d eventually find the vial of hangover potion she always carried when going out on dates. It was right there in her purse. 

Which she’d left on a stool alongside the centre island in his kitchen. 

Shocking memory. She really must try to be more careful in future, she told herself with a grin.

 

*

 

15 June  
Sunday morning  
Day Nine

 

Hermione surveyed her wardrobe, frowning critically. She had arrived at a day and an occasion she hadn’t remotely expected would happen. The fact that it was already Day Nine and Draco was still hanging on despite everything she’d done the past several days was remarkable. Dismaying, too. And now she was Meeting the Parents. And these weren’t just any parents. They were Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy. To say that it was a daunting prospect was an almost laughable understatement.

Absently, she pulled one frock after another aside, but her attention to what she was doing was perfunctory at best. In her head, the events of the past five days were replaying themselves once again like a slow-motion movie reel. 

It had begun on Day Four with the books. His, to be precise. He had a sizeable number of them, a rather impressive collection in fact, but she’d just happened to notice that their arrangement on the shelves had been a bit helter-skelter. And that just would not do.

Of course, she’d done nothing precipitous. She’d waited until after they’d eaten their take-away meal, and then, while he was taking a business call by Floo in his bedroom, she’d busied herself reorganising his entire collection, first by genre and then, within each section, alphabetically by author’s name. There had been a momentary dilemma, deciding whether titles or surnames should take precedence, but at last, the latter had won out, and with several concentrated waves of her wand, the books had jumped ship, as it were, flying neatly onto the shelves in their new spots. 

When he’d returned to the sitting room, she’d smiled brightly, conveying delight with her handiwork and her certainty that he’d be pleased as well. Instead, he had stopped dead, his face frozen in momentary surprise and then disbelief. 

“Oh,” he’d said at last. “Oh, I _see_...” The emphasis on that final word had been telling, belying the crooked grin he’d eventually managed to summon up. “Well, thanks, Granger... how very efficient of you. Much easier to find everything now, I expect...”

Hermione’s mouth twitched evilly as she recalled the dismay he’d tried so hard to hide from her. Oh, to have had small squares of library parchment to stick on the books as well. That would have been the pièce de résistance. However, no need to quibble, and anyway, that really was kind of mean. The look on his face when he discovered what she’d done was enough all by itself. 

Yet, somehow, for whatever reason (unfathomable to Hermione, because, of course, there was no way in the world that she would continue to date a guy who would so much as _breathe_ on her books the wrong way, much less take it upon himself to actually rearrange them), Draco had remained undeterred. In fact, he’d proceeded to ask her out for the very next night. So—time for Plan B. 

Plan B was, in fact, really pretty nervy. Even Hermione had hesitated, some nagging second thoughts giving her serious pause. Not for too long, though, because if anything would push him away for good, this two-part assault would.

Wednesday evenings were devoted to Draco’s weekly pick-up Quidditch matches with the lads, the lads being Harry and Ron, who had long since abandoned their schoolboy hostility towards Draco, adopting instead a friendly animosity that ignited fiercely competitive play whenever they got together. Oliver Wood joined in most times, along with Blaise Zabini and Theo Nott, neither of them very good, really, but spurred by the same residual spirit of house rivalry. The big difference was that now, every match ended with several convivial albeit rather sweaty rounds at the Leaky. 

Draco had invited Hermione to come along and watch. She could tell from the way he’d grinned that he was proud of his prowess on the broom and eager to show off his Seeker’s skills to her. He’d pulled on all his gear – gloves, skin-tight trousers, dragonhide boots and chest protector, shin and arm guards, the lot – betraying his excitement in a wide smile as he reached into the hall cupboard for the final item: his broom.

“It’s brand-new, see,” he’d told her while rooting about in the cupboard, his eyes shining with pride. “An Excelsia 2500. The latest model and fast as hell. You can’t beat it.”

She’d nodded seriously, biting her lip all the while, and watched as he’d finally pulled the broom from its storage spot into the bright light of the hallway.

The fingers encircling the broom turned white, suddenly, as they tightened spasmodically around the handle.

“What...? What the fuck...” he’d muttered. His mouth had dropped open and she could see that he’d been rendered speechless.

“Oh, gosh! What’s wrong? Don’t you like it?” she’d quavered, innocent alarm flooding her face. “I thought... well... I thought it would bring you good luck!”

“You thought...” he’d repeated dully. Holding the broom at arm’s length, he stared at it, transfixed.

In the centre of the handle, in large, bright-red letters, was the inscription, “DM **hearts** HG” surrounded by little curlicues and arrow-speared hearts. 

She’d turned wide eyes on him. “But... don’t professional Quidditch players often put somebody’s initials on their brooms for luck? Somebody they have feelings for? I thought they all did that sort of thing.”

“No. They don’t. Not ever,” he’d replied woodenly, and it was obvious to Hermione that it was all he could do not to lose it and read her the riot act. “It’s considered very bad form to write messages on one’s broom. A broom is... it’s... well, it’s...” He’d struggled to find the word he wanted. “It’s _sacred_.” 

“But... we’ve been spending so much time together lately... and so I thought...” She’d stared at him, stricken. “You don’t care for me at all, do you, Malfoy! Not really! You’ve just been _using_ me, haven’t you! I’m just a convenience!” At this, Hermione had screwed up her eyes, squeezing out a single tear that meandered down her right cheek. Sniffling loudly several times for good measure, she’d turned away, a hand clapped over her mouth.

That tear had galvanised Draco into sudden action after a moment’s frozen indecision. Rushing to her side, he’d wrapped his arms around her and held her tightly to his chest. 

“Come on, Granger... Hermione, I mean... you’re hardly a mere convenience! I care for you very much. I mean to say... I feel as if something powerful has been growing between us in the short time we’ve been seeing each other. Please tell me you feel it, too.”

Hermione had looked up at him, eyes watery and red-rimmed, her lower lip quivering ever so slightly as she offered up a brave little smile.

“I do. What does it mean?”

Draco had smiled – he’d hoped it simply looked reassuring, though in truth, he was the one feeling tremendous relief at that moment – and pressed a kiss to her forehead. “Reckon it means we should keep our dates for this weekend, yeah?”

She had nodded, smiling tremulously and then burying her face in his chest to hide a tiny smirk as she thought of what he would come home later to find, following the match. After tonight, she’d been willing to bet, those weekend dates would be in serious jeopardy, unlikely ever to materialise.

Nevertheless, to her great surprise and chagrin, they had. Friday night’s dinner at a cosy little bistro had been followed by a moonlit walk in the park. On Saturday evening, there had been a lovely, intimate meal and theatre tickets (Draco’s first West End experience. Hermione had had an impish glint in her eye as she’d led him into the Apollo Victoria Theatre to see “Wicked.”). On both evenings, as they’d strolled under the starry night sky, and again (and again) at her door, she had made yet another dismaying discovery: Draco Malfoy could _kiss._

Merlin, could he ever! The kisses they’d shared hitherto – light and chaste by her own design – had paled by comparison to the real thing. What she’d feared and had tried so hard to avoid had happened. His natural sexiness had sneaked past her defences, and now she couldn’t erase the compelling memory of his tender mouth on hers, his naturally clean scent, the smoothness of his skin, and the lucent clarity of his grey eyes as he gazed at her. Not only that, but he’d turned out to be genuinely interesting, intelligent, and unexpectedly charming into the bargain. It would be that much harder, now, to orchestrate the events that would force him to let her go.

But that is precisely what had to happen, if her article were to be a success. And on that contingency hung the rest of her career, at least at _Enchant Me_ magazine. _Damn,_ she thought miserably, not sure which possibility was making her feel worse: that her plan might fail or that it might actually succeed. As things stood, her really big guns had been a complete wash. He was actually coming back for more. But why? Draco Malfoy was the last man on earth Hermione would have pegged for a masochist. And yet, here he was and here she was, and there his beloved, brand-new racing broom had been, with their initials engraved in red, surrounded by a nauseating flurry of little hearts and squiggles, and on top of that, she’d thrown a perfectly ridiculous little tantrum, not to mention the little surprise she’d left him in his house. And despite all of it, he was practically begging for another date with her the following evening. Something didn’t add up. Was it possible that somehow, he’d found out about her article, specifically that he was the guinea pig? She couldn’t see how unless Parkinson had told him, and she highly doubted that Pansy would have done such a thing. 

No, it had to be something else – unless (gods, could _this_ be the reason?) he was genuinely falling for her? Of all the scenarios she might consider, that one seemed the most remote by far, and quite probably the most absurd as well. If only she could be sure, because...

Hermione sighed deeply. Whatever else might be going on, right now she had to stay focused on the business at hand, which was finding something suitable to wear for her afternoon at Malfoy Manor.

How in the world had things got to this point?

 

*

 

Draco was feeling just as preoccupied as he dressed. He was jubilant to find himself bringing a girl to meet his parents. It meant that he was right on schedule with the challenge he had taken on, and like it or not, his father would be forced to take him seriously at last. It was _who_ he planned on bringing that was so astonishing, all things considered.

Draco grinned to himself at that thought. As bizarre as he still found it that Hermione Granger was the girl in question, there was, nevertheless, something rather delicious in the realisation that such a scenario would probably send his parents into a mild state of shock. However, the challenge had not stipulated the identity of the girl in question, only that she be truly in love with him. And things were looking very rosy on that front, Draco assured himself, as he reflected on the way Hermione had behaved in the last several days:

1\. The transparent, old “leave a personal item in the man’s flat, accidentally on purpose” trick. He’d discovered her purse in his kitchen soon after waking; she’d probably Floo’d home only moments before. This “oversight” meant only one thing: that she wanted to see him again, and the fact that he had her purse in his possession assured her that she would, of necessity. Not that she’d had anything to worry about, of course, as Draco had had every intention of pursuing her anyway. But she wasn’t to know that. Still, finding that purse had served to reassure him that he was barking up a tree he would soon climb handily and then reduce to matchsticks.

2\. Hermione’s rather ballsy rearrangement of his book collection. Initially, he’d been astonished and, quite frankly, pretty turned off by her sheer presumption. _Damned pushy_ , he’d thought, annoyed. But then, he’d reconsidered. This was Hermione Granger, after all. She’d always been pushy and an insufferable know-it-all. Her way was always best. It stood to reason that if she really cared for you, she would feel compelled to rearrange your entire life for you if she felt she knew a better way. He should feel flattered, if anything, that she liked him well enough to _want_ to interfere and then actually do it. Never mind that the system he’d already had in place had suited him quite well. Surely, this was a sign of her interest and genuine investment in their burgeoning relationship.

3\. His broom. That had been a tough one, he had to admit. Seeing that beautiful new broom, its gleaming, dark wood defiled by a juvenile declaration of love the like of which he hadn’t seen since their fourth year at Hogwarts (when he’d found his initials and Pansy’s writ large on the wall of the third-floor boys’ bathroom in glowing green paint that stubbornly resisted all normal methods of removal. She had vehemently denied any involvement, but the damning evidence had later turned up in her trunk.) was _painful_. He’d been shocked and angry, and he couldn’t deny that. But seeing that small face streaked with tears, her mouth quivering, had done something very queer to him. Something had actually twisted in his chest when he saw her face crumple, and he’d found himself rushing to comfort her. It had been like an out-of-body experience, really, like watching himself and feeling vaguely surprised even as an irresistible compulsion was taking over. 

4\. The invasion of his private bathroom. Arriving back home after a long and strenuous evening of Quidditch (alone, as Hermione had excused herself soon after the match, citing an early morning at work the next day), he had gratefully stripped down as he walked about the bedroom, dropping sweat-stained clothing and gear as he went, until he arrived at the en-suite stark naked, sticky with perspiration, and ready for a nice, hot shower. The smell had hit him as soon as he opened the door. It was vanilla… no, wait. Vanilla and _coconut_ , wafting in fragrant waves about his face. The primary source was a small bottle of air freshening elixir sitting on the marble countertop. But it wasn't alone. Keeping it company was a score of other bottles and jars of varying sizes, all queuing up like people waiting for a bus. 

Draco had peered down at them, frowning. Perfume and body “splash,” a variety of lotions for every part of the anatomy, facial cleanser, a cream exfoliant for the shower, bath “caviar” (that one had him quite curious, and he opened the jar to see what was inside), bath salts, body wash gel, a woman’s razor (apparently, Granger didn’t trust entirely to magic to rid herself of body hair) and a loofah were neatly arranged in various locations, including one entire long shelf in his medicine cupboard above the double sink, most of his shower caddy, a large drawer, and another shelf in the walk-in closet. Where, he observed, there was now a petite, white dressing gown now hanging alongside his navy-blue one.

Well, fuck, she’d made herself quite at home, hadn’t she. Practically taken over the entire bathroom, putting _his_ stuff Merlin only knew where. _Pushy_ , he found himself thinking again. What was she planning to do, give herself a complete make-over every time she visited? Or was this in anticipation of staying the night? If that was the case, he was all for it, as it hadn’t yet happened and he was beginning to wonder if it ever would. She seemed to be playing a waiting game where sex was concerned. He’d already had several nasty cases of blue balls, and he had the feeling he hadn’t seen the last of them.

Did all women do this sort of thing when they were getting to know a bloke? Or was Hermione just more uninhibited than most about gratifying her needs? He did rather like a forthright woman who knew what she wanted and wasn’t shy about going after it. There was something undeniably sexy about that.

More to the point, perhaps she was signalling to him yet again that she was taking this relationship seriously. There was nothing more intimate than one’s personal products. A large box of tampons (light days, regulars, _and_ supers) next to the sink could mean only one thing: she had it for him _bad_.

5\. The owls. Merlin’s balls, the _owls_. It had begun with just one, which had arrived at his window the following morning, bearing a missive full of apologies. The second one had fluttered to a landing on his windowsill even before he’d finished reading the first message. That one had come bearing an anxious note asking, rather pathetically, if he’d forgiven her yet for what she’d done to his broom and if there were anything she could do to make up for her dreadful faux pas. The third owl had skidded to a halt, banging its head against the windowpane in his kitchen, a mere twenty minutes later. This time, the note asked quite pointedly why he hadn’t replied yet and whether she should understand his silence to mean that he could not forgive her and no longer wanted to see her. Or, the fourth owl’s note had asked timorously, was she just being silly and paranoid? This question was followed by a fervent request: could he _please_ contact her ASAP? 

Fucking hell, he’d never realised just how sensitive and insecure Hermione was. He certainly would never have expected it of someone like her. Then again, one never did know other people as well as one thought. Maybe he’d misjudged her apparent strength. For all he knew, it was all a lot of show, all that Golden Trio business with Harry years earlier. Clearly, he concluded, she’d needed to be a part of the Trio, and she’d needed to be seen to be strong. But perhaps there was more to Hermione Granger than he’d ever suspected, a vulnerability she’d hidden all too well. Back when they were at school, he’d have rejoiced in such a revelation of weakness. Now, it made him uneasy, even a little bit sad. 

However, all that aside, he reminded himself ( _pull yourself together, man!_ ) there was a very practical matter to consider: at this point in the challenge, there was no going back. He _had_ to proceed, full steam ahead, if he wanted any chance at all to win the Sidhe account and get that promotion. It was patently obvious that this girl was falling for him hard. He’d be a fool not to make full use of that. Everything he wanted was within his grasp if he could just hold on a bit longer. Hence, his reply assuring her that all was well, that she was indeed forgiven ( _Granger, you silly cow! There is nothing to worry about, I promise!_ ), and to prove his sincerity, would she please accompany him to lunch at Malfoy Manor on Sunday afternoon? He would very much like to introduce her properly to his parents at that time. RSVP ASAP. He was a bit surprised that it took fully six hours for her to accept his invitation, but maybe that was just a woman’s ego wanting to keep him dangling a little bit. 

He wasn’t bothered. It was quite clear who was really on the hook here.


	4. Chapter 4

Sunday afternoon

 

The gardens at the Manor were exquisite in June. Roses of every colour and size flaunted their beauty and scent in lush displays all throughout the extensive maze of neatly pruned and sculpted shrubbery, flowerbeds, and trees behind the manor house.

Narcissa Malfoy was unabashedly proud of her gardens, and there was nothing she loved more than to show them off to visitors. Currently, she and Hermione were strolling together along the gravelled pathways.

Draco and Hermione had arrived ninety minutes earlier, Apparating directly from his flat to the entry hall of his parents’ palatial, old house just outside of Castle Combe, Wiltshire. They hadn’t been standing there for more than a couple of minutes when a door at the far end of the hall opened, and a tall, elegant blonde of indeterminate middle age entered and moved gracefully towards them, her arms outstretched in welcome.

“Draco!” she’d exclaimed, beaming. “It’s wonderful to see you again so soon, darling! And you’ve brought a guest for luncheon. How lovely.”

“Mother,” Draco had said, smiling as he moved into her embrace. They’d hugged for a moment, and then he’d stepped back and casually slipped an arm around Hermione’s waist, drawing her forward a step. “May I present Hermione Granger?”

Narcissa had looked Hermione over with scrupulous attention to every detail, brows knitted together thoughtfully. Then her eyes narrowed for a moment, abruptly widening as something occurred to her.

“Gracious, I remember you now! You’re the girl with the beautiful blue gown, aren’t you! From the widows’ and orphans’ fundraiser at the Palladia. Isn’t that right?”

Hermione had flushed slightly, surprised and pleased to have been noticed and remembered. “Yes, that’s right. I –”

“She’s a writer, Mother. She was there to cover the event for _Enchant Me_ Magazine. You know, Pansy’s rag.”

“Come now, Draco, that’s just a bit harsh, don’t you think? It’s not a rag at all,” Narcissa had protested pleasantly. “It’s a quite respectable publication and very entertaining, too. I’ve enjoyed it immensely whenever I’ve come across a copy. But…” Here, she looked back at Hermione again, and an expression of more intense concentration took hold of her features. “I am sure I remember you from somewhere else as well, my dear. Have we met before this?”

The question had been sincere. Apparently she really did not recall. After all, their last meeting, if one could properly call it that, had been ten years earlier, and the circumstances had been very different, painfully so. And of course, the dirty, thin, bedraggled eighteen-year-old girl she had been then was a far cry from the polished and stylishly attractive young woman who stood before Narcissa Malfoy now. That long-ago day was one in a series of days and months that still haunted Hermione when she chose to let the memories surface, or when they did so, unbidden.

“Yes, actually,” Hermione had said quietly. “We have, Mrs. Malfoy. But it was a long time ago. If you don’t remember, perhaps it’s better left in the past.”

Draco had been listening silently to the exchange, observing both his mother and the slim, chestnut-haired girl at his side. He knew only too well to what Hermione referred. He recognised, too, the tremendous kindness and courtesy she had just done his mother. Feeling a sudden surge of affection, he’d tightened his arm around Hermione’s waist, hugging her a bit closer. 

“Where’s Father?” he asked now, glancing around.

Narcissa had smiled serenely. “Oh, he’s in his study, I don’t doubt. That’s where he is most of the time these days. You know your father, Draco; he lives, eats, and breathes his work. If I didn't know better, I’d be jealous!” She’d laughed, a light, musical sound, and looped her arm through her son’s. “Come along, you two. We’ll rescue him from all that drudgery and then sit down to lunch. I’ve arranged for it to be served on the patio. I hope you’ll enjoy that, Miss Granger?”

Lunch had been a pleasant enough affair. Lucius Malfoy had been cordial and carefully amiable, if not perhaps a bit formal and stiff at times. “Don’t worry,” Draco had whispered to Hermione during a lull in the conversation. “He’s like that with everybody. It’s just his way.”

Good to know. Because Hermione had been feeling more than a little bit intimidated by the older man, and not only because of the circumstances of today’s visit, already enough to make anyone nervous. It was impossible to separate the childhood memories she had of him from the man sitting opposite her at the table. She had detested him back then and had even found herself feeling sorry for Draco when she thought about what his childhood must have been like with a father like that. Putting two and two together, it certainly explained a lot about his behaviour. She wondered now how he had managed to emerge relatively unscarred from all that. Or perhaps he hadn’t.

“Tell me, Miss Granger,” Lucius had remarked, and it was immediately clear to Hermione that he remembered precisely who she was. “What sort of writing do you do, exactly? I believe I recall Draco mentioning you from time to time years ago. Your academic brilliance was, shall we say, something of an inspiration to him.”

Well, that was putting a kind face on it. Draco had let out an amused snort. “More like a thorn in my side. You were always one step ahead of me, Granger, and didn’t I know it!”

Hermione had glanced around the table, laughing a bit uneasily. “Oh, well, I suppose I was a bit of a swot.”

“A bit?” Draco had teased, an eyebrow quirked in amusement.

“Okay, yes, more than a bit. But you were always right there as well. And to answer your question, Mr. Malfoy,” she'd added, turning to look at Lucius, “I write the sorts of articles that women enjoy reading just for fun. But I hope to do more someday, something of real value. It’s just… well… there doesn’t seem to be much place for more serious material where I work now. I hope to change that.”

“I’m sure you shall succeed admirably, my dear,” Narcissa had said briskly, reaching to slice the richly decadent cake that a house-elf had just brought. “Though I must say, I have certainly enjoyed your current work. This is Draco’s favourite, you know. Chocolate ganache.” She'd winked conspiratorially at Hermione. 

Hermione had shifted uncomfortably in her seat, her smile a bit forced. Evidently, Draco’s mother viewed her as potential daughter-in-law material. But why? Could it be that he never brought a girl home unless he believed something serious was developing? Maybe he really was falling for her after all!

As absurdly premature as it seemed, this lunch had clearly been a rite of passage, a sort of trial. In a sense, she was being interviewed for the position, one that obviously, Draco’s mother, at least, felt had been vacant for too long and needed filling as soon as possible. If Hermione could somehow have been a fly on the wall not thirty minutes after she and Draco had taken their leave, her ears would have been on fire. But they had begun burning even before that. Her walk in the garden with Narcissa saw to that.

“Tell me about yourself, Miss Granger,” Narcissa now said conversationally, as they strolled amongst the roses. “Draco really hasn’t told us much beyond the fact that you two were at school together. And of course...” She paused, carefully summoning her next words. “I know the part you played during the war.” Her face darkened and she looked away briefly. “It was you, wasn’t it,” she asked quietly. “The girl my sister tortured here. It was you.”

Surprised, Hermione turned to find Narcissa regarding her somberly, eyes dark with regret.

“Yes. I didn’t think you remembered,” she murmured.

“I didn’t, not at first.” Idly, Narcissa plucked a shriveled leaf from one of the rose bushes, crushing it between her fingers. “But the more I thought about your name and really looked at you, the more familiar you became. Of course, you bear very little resemblance to the young girl I saw all those years ago. But there’s something about your eyes, even now… a certain determination…” She reached for Hermione’s hand and folded it warmly between hers. “I am deeply sorry for what my sister did to you. Please believe me.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Malfoy. I do, of course.” It was Hermione’s turn to look away now, blinking hard to banish unexpected tears. “I don’t like thinking about that time. I’ve tried very hard to forget it.”

“Perhaps remembering is the best way to be free of pain like that,” Narcissa said quietly. “You know, my son wanted to help you. I could see it in his face when you were screaming. But he was frightened. So was I. My sister had gone completely mad by then and was very dangerous.”

“I don’t blame him. Nobody could have stopped her.” Hermione kicked a small, white pebble beneath her foot, watching it skitter along the path and disappear beneath the shrubbery. And then the import of Narcissa’s words sank in. “Draco… Draco wanted to help me? Really?” 

“Mmm. But as I said, he was frightened. Nobody knew what Bellatrix might do next. She would as soon turn her wand on her own family if she thought they had crossed her. Remember what happened to my cousin Sirius. Well…” She sighed deeply. “As you said earlier, it was a long time ago. We all have much happier days ahead. So. Tell me a bit more about yourself.”

“Well,” Hermione began, grateful that the conversation had shifted, “I’m an only child. My parents are both dentists. Healers for teeth; I suppose that’s the best way to explain what they do.” 

“Muggles, yes?”

Hermione nodded. “That’s right. They live in Watford, not too far from London. That’s my home – or was, anyway, until I got my Hogwarts letter.”

“No other magical family members, then?”

“Not that I know of. I’m the only one. My parents are very accepting – proud, actually. I love having magic, though I still feel like I’ve a foot in both worlds, sometimes. Anyway, I’ve always loved to read and do research and write, so journalism seemed a natural career for me. I want to do something _important_ , really make a difference in the world!” Hermione declared, her eyes shining.

They had made a complete circuit of the expansive grounds and now stood at the stone steps leading up into the house. Narcissa smiled gently. “I rather think you’ve already accomplished that, my dear.”

 

That night—

“Oh, darling, I really think she might be the one!” Narcissa enthused.

She sat in their large, canopied bed, quilts drawn up to her chest, watching her husband move about the bedroom as he prepared to retire. Finally, Lucius sat down on the edge of the bed, kicked off his carpet slippers, blew out the bedside candle, and lay back under the quilts, staring up at the voile canopy overhead.

“You spoke with her at some length, Cissa,” he replied after a moment’s ruminative silence. “What was your impression? Do you think she loves Draco? I mean, _really_ loves him?”

“I believe she cares far more for our son than she even realises,” his wife answered. “And I think I may have helped things along, in my own small way.”

“How so?” Lucius was intrigued. Rolling onto his side, he propped up his cheek with the heel of his hand and regarded his wife with interest.

“Well, we spoke of the incident ten years ago, when she was last in our house. You remember, I’m sure.”

He nodded grimly.

“I simply told her the truth: that Draco had wanted very badly to help her when Bella was torturing her. Because he did, you know. It pained him to watch all that. I saw it in his eyes. Another in a list of horrifying things our son was forced to witness. I also told her why he didn’t try to stop it, in the end.”

“Surely that would have angered her.”

“On the contrary, surprisingly. She was actually very generous. She understood why he was unable to do anything. What struck me most, though, was the look on her face when she heard that Draco had been genuinely upset to see her being hurt, that he’d wanted to help her despite the fact that they hadn’t ever been friends. She was surprised, but profoundly moved as well.” Narcissa gave a small, wistful sigh. “I don’t know for certain if she loves him, but I hope she does. She would make him a splendid wife, Lucius. A far better one than the Greengrass girl ever could have been. I think the more pertinent question now is, does he love her?”

“Whether or not he loves her is largely immaterial, my dear,” Lucius said, yawning. “The challenge only specifies that he get a young lady to fall in love with him.” He chuckled quietly, dropping a kiss on his wife’s cheek. She stirred, reaching up to draw him close, and now he whispered in her ear, amused. “Your agenda and mine are two completely separate entities.”

“Even if that were true,” she replied archly, sliding her arms around her husband’s neck, “mine trumps yours every time. But I know quite well it isn’t. You don’t fool me, Lucius Malfoy, not for a moment. _Do_ you think he is in love with her?”

There was a pause and then a deeply satisfied sigh.

“He doesn’t know it yet, but yes. Absolutely.”

 

*

 

They’d stayed for a couple of hours beyond the meal to be polite and sufficiently sociable (Hermione had insisted). Following the garden walk and a tour of the Manor, Draco had made their excuses and, after a brief, discreet discussion about where to go, his place or hers, they’d Disapparated back to her flat, materialising in the seclusion of her tiny back garden.

On the verge of a bit of wandless magic to unlock the back door, Hermione opened her mouth to utter the spell when a pair of strong arms encircled her from behind, pulling her back against a hard chest.

Almost instantly, a small, electric hum began in her blood, causing goose bumps to spring up on her arms and the back of her neck, which Draco then exposed, gently sweeping her hair to one side and pressing his lips to the sensitive flesh at the nape. Warm breaths tickled her as he exhaled, along with a series of tiny, sweet kisses and light flicks of his tongue. Eventually, when he found the incredibly sensitive spot just beneath her left ear, and again as he explored the rise of her collarbone, she uttered small, involuntary cries of pleasure, feeling him smile against her skin at the sound.

Standing quite still, her eyes drifting shut and her head falling back on Draco’s shoulder, she allowed him free reign with his attentions. What he was doing felt heavenly, and she didn’t want him to stop. When he did, suddenly, she opened her eyes in surprise and disappointment, only to find herself swiftly turned around and facing him, and that same lovely, sensuous mouth now ardently pressed to hers, his arms wrapped around her and holding her as close as it was humanly possible to be.

“Gods, Hermione...” he breathed, stepping back just enough that he could see her face in the dimly lit garden, his hands still pressed to her back. “I want you so much! Please... don’t send me away!”

Truth be told, those hands of his were very nearly the only thing holding her up at this point; she had never really known the meaning of the phrase “weak at the knees” before this moment, but now her legs felt rubbery and completely untrustworthy, and all she wanted was to be as close to Draco as possible. Nothing in the way, no impediments, skin to gloriously naked skin.

She took him by the hand, her smile incandescent in the deepening twilight. “Stay,” she whispered, leading him up the stairs into her darkened flat.

 

*

 

16 June  
Monday, early morning  
Day Ten

 

Brilliant sunshine streamed in through the skylight above the bed, and Hermione cracked first one eye open and then the other, exhausted, bleary-eyed, and feeling as if she’d been flattened by a fifty-ton lorry. As the mental cobwebs cleared, she also became keenly aware of three things. First, she’d just had a full night of the most amazing sex of her life, and it had nothing to do with mere technical prowess, though clearly Draco possessed that. Second, it was Day Ten and – _shitshitshit_ – she’d reached her deadline, having failed utterly. The third thing was also, coincidentally, the living embodiment of her failure: Draco Malfoy, the man who – if he were in his right mind – ought to have dumped her long since, now lay sprawled on his stomach in the centre of her bed, one nicely toned, bare arm flung carelessly across her also-bare midsection. His head was turned to one side, his lips slightly parted as he slept. The relaxed smile on his face was disturbingly attractive and compelling, as were the feelings that were stirring in her once again, just seeing him lying there. Hands down, he was the most beautiful man she’d ever seen, clothed or naked. Naked was good, though, she decided, gazing at him. Naked suited him. Really, he should never ever wear clothing. It did him a serious disservice. Clapping a hand over her mouth to stop a fit of giggles at that thought, Hermione rolled over, burying her face in the pillow.

At that, the arm resting cosily on her stomach was jostled, and Draco raised his head with a sleepy grin. “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing,” she said, her mouth still twitching. “Only... I was just thinking...” She stopped, feeling a hot blush flood her cheeks.

“Always a worthy activity,” he teased, slipping an arm firmly about her waist once again. “What about?” 

Hermione leaned in very close, brushing a lock of soft, pale hair away from his ear. “Just that I like you _much_ better without clothes,” she whispered.

Draco’s eyebrows shot up, and then he laughed softly. “Well, thank you. If that’s how you feel, I’ll inform my tailor that his services are no longer required. Of course, you do realise that if I’m to be naked all the time, I’ll have to be a kept man. Are you prepared to support me in the manner to which I am accustomed?”

Hermione shook her head solemnly, a few curly tendrils tickling Draco’s cheek. “Definitely not. We’ll have to live quite modestly, I’m afraid. Do you think you could manage without Scabius? Because I’ve no room for a house-elf. There’s barely enough room for you.”

“Well,” he sighed elaborately, “in that case, we’ll have to join a nudist colony somewhere. Wandless magic only, of course. No pockets. You’ll have to be naked too. Will you mind that? Because I certainly won’t.” He gave her a naughty wink, leaning over to drop a kiss on her shoulder.

“I suppose I can manage,” Hermione replied, yawning and stretching luxuriantly. “As long as the weather cooperates. I don’t much fancy the cold. I’m a bit chilly right now, actually.” She glanced up at him through her lashes with a cheeky little smile.

“Oh well, we can’t have that.” Wrapping himself around her from behind and pulling her in close, Draco gave a contented sigh, burying his nose in the nape of her neck and nuzzling the soft skin there. “Better?” he whispered into her hair.

“Mmm... much.” Snuggling happily against him, she pressed her bum into his crotch, where his growing erection nudged her, asking for attention.

Draco groaned with each wiggle of her bum. “Bad form, Granger! Here I am, perfectly willing to sacrifice the comforts of clothing for the rest of my natural life for you – not exactly a minor inconvenience – and you _torture_ me! Well, the piper must be paid, young lady.”

Hermione giggled, turning to glance seductively at him over her shoulder. “Yes, I suppose he must! Fair’s fair.” And with that, she disappeared completely beneath the coverlet. Moments later, Draco looked as if he were happily and quite willingly experiencing the most exquisite torture imaginable.

 

*

 

Later, after Draco had gone, and in serious need of a good, long soak in a hot tub, Hermione ran a bath for herself. Steam rose in fragrant clouds as the tub filled. Sticking a gingerly toe in, she found the temperature exactly right and carefully lowered herself into the steaming water. Sighing with relief, she lay back, every sore muscle relaxing into butter, and began to think.

What could she do at this point? Not only had she failed, but she’d found herself curiously happy about the failure. Which didn’t make the slightest bit of sense, really, because it meant that Pansy would never give her the chance to write the sorts of articles she really wanted to pursue. Her career would continue to revolve around brainless fluff, and nobody would ever ask more of her. There seemed to be only one thing she could do now, or rather, two: first, get Pansy to agree to a small extension, just a few more days. She was certain she could get him to dump her in that time. Second, she would need to redouble her efforts to make that happen. Surely, she could come up with _something_ that would kill his feelings for her. 

But of course, that was just it, wasn’t it. Because she didn’t want to kill those feelings. And damn it, he didn’t deserve what she was doing to him. He really seemed to care for her, and she was making a mockery of those feelings by lying to him. The whole bloody thing was a lie. Except that it wasn’t, not anymore. That was the really confusing bit. It wasn’t supposed to feel like this, like... something _real_. And yet, that’s what it had somehow become.

Gods, the whole thing was such a mess! For a long time, Hermione lay there, fingers and toes shriveling, tears leaking from her swollen eyes and running down her cheeks into the rapidly cooling bath water. And then quite suddenly, there was an unexpected flash of clarity, and she knew exactly what she would do. He’d invited her to a party in four days’ time, the Malfoys’ annual Midsummer Ball. She would lie low until then, pretend to be ill and call in sick, thus avoiding him and any further lies. Then, after the party, she’d tell him the whole truth, by which time it would be too late to write the article as originally planned. What she would do about that, she had no idea yet. But at least, she hoped Draco would believe her and forgive. 

Because there was one thing she couldn’t lie about anymore, not to him and especially not to herself.

 

*

 

19 June  
Thursday morning

 

Odd. 

Draco rubbed his chin ruminatively as he gazed out the window of his sitting room at the public gardens across the road, a cup of breakfast coffee in hand. Granger hadn’t been ill three days ago. In fact, she’d seemed the very picture of exuberantly good health. And if their romp in bed were any indication, she was blessed with boundless energy as well. Then suddenly, she was off work; she must have called in sick after he’d left her flat late Monday morning. He’d discovered this when he stopped by her office in the middle of the afternoon, unannounced, to take her to a late lunch. She was still out on Tuesday and again on Wednesday. This he learned after sending her an owl inquiring after her health and receiving a reply that was disturbingly succinct in light of their recent intimacies:

“Thanks for your concern. Not feeling well. Wretched sore throat. Think I might have strep. Please don’t come over. I don’t want you to catch it. H.”

And now he was beginning to become truly concerned. He hadn’t had a word from her all week apart from that one message. And tomorrow evening was the Midsummer Ball. She’d accepted his invitation and he’d counted on her going – and of course, so much was riding on her being there on his arm, though she had no way of knowing that – but now, everything was being thrown into question. 

Could she have changed her mind about him? He’d been so certain of her, so very _sure_. Could the sex have somehow altered her feelings, made her doubt herself and him? Had he rushed her, pushing her into an intimacy she hadn’t been ready for?

That didn’t seem very likely, considering her behaviour leading up to their lovemaking. Because damn it, that’s what it had been: _lovemaking_. There had been a deep and transcendent connection between them. He had felt it and he was sure she had as well. What had happened between them in that bed had been a powerful and moving articulation of that connection. For Draco, the experience had been a revelation. He’d expected energetic, enjoyable fucking. What he got was so much more.

And now, there was a fact that had to be faced. This girl – beautiful, hellishly brilliant, willful, surprising, sometimes a pain in the arse, but never, ever dull – believed that he was in love with her. How the fuck could he tell her the real reason he’d begun asking her out and spending so much of the last fortnight with her? Shit, maybe he wouldn’t have to, he thought desperately. Maybe she’d never have to find out. 

Nobody – neither he nor his father – had considered what would happen to the girl in question _after_ the ball. Was she to be merely a casualty of the challenge, disposable goods? He simply hadn’t thought. But now that it was Hermione, the question and its possible answers were unavoidable. If he were being totally honest, he certainly hadn’t planned on taking things any further, once he’d provided proof positive that he deserved a crack at the Sidhe account and that future promotion. He supposed, thinking about it now, that he’d originally expected to simply let whoever it was down easy after the ball, find a way to break it off without too much mess. She would go cooperatively off into oblivion and he would win that lucrative account and eventually be made head of his department at Malfoy Enterprises. Everything planned for and tied up neatly with a big bow.

Except that the one thing he hadn’t planned for had happened. He’d been caught in his own snare.

He had fallen in love with Hermione Granger. 

This would be okay – more than okay, actually. His parents had liked her enormously, or at least he knew for sure that his mother had. His father was harder to read. But there was a spectacularly large and nasty fly in the ointment: their entire relationship was based on a lie. Plain and simple, he had conned her. He’d sought her out under false pretenses, allowing her to believe that his intentions were entirely honourable and his feelings genuine. What a truly cosmic joke that in the end, he had come to feel for her exactly what he’d been pretending earlier and more. Karma had arrived with bells on, to bite him in the arse. 

The answer to his earlier question was now all too clear. She would have to find out, because he would have to tell her everything. With a straight-arrow girl like Granger, there was no other way. Nor did he want there to be, in truth. He liked who he was with her. He wanted to be that man going forward.

He’d tell her everything after the ball. Maybe it wouldn’t sound so bad. _Look, here’s the thing, Hermione: there’s this really important client, see, and winning their business is critical, especially for me, so ..._

Fuck, who was he kidding? 

With a heavy heart, he set about writing another message. Doom was staring him in the face, and at this point, he wasn’t sure if he hoped she would bail on him or go with him as planned. But one way or the other, he had to know.

 

_Dear Hermione,_

_I haven’t heard from you, so I was wondering whether you still plan to accompany me to the Midsummer Ball tomorrow evening._

_I hope you’re feeling much better and that I’ll see you tomorrow._

_I miss you._

_Draco_

 

Deftly folding the parchment, he slipped it into the tiny metal ring on his owl’s leg and opened the casement window that looked out on the back garden. The owl was off and away in seconds, quickly becoming no more than a tiny dot in the sky, and then it was gone.

The reply arrived about two hours later. Eagerness was overlaid with a vague sense of dread as Draco slid the small, rolled parchment from his owl’s leg and opened it.

 _Dear Draco, I am feeling much better,_ he read in Hermione’s neat, deliberate script. _So I will be able to go with you to the ball tomorrow night after all. See you at eight, as we planned. Yours, H._

Draco sank down into an armchair, immensely relieved. The feeling didn’t last very long. Soon, it was replaced by a case of nerves that blotted out any pleasure he might have felt at the prospect of the ball. In the past, it had been an occasion he’d generally enjoyed. As a teenager, he’d always had a coterie of friends to get drunk with, from bottles they'd filched from the bar; in later years, there had generally been a beautiful girl on his arm with whom to pleasantly while away the hours. Then there were the two dark years he’d been affianced to Astoria Greengrass, and this period he would have preferred to forget altogether: the Plague Years, he called them. This would be the first Midsummer Ball post-Astoria, and it was fitting, somehow, that he should be taking Hermione, who couldn’t have been more different to his former fiancée if she had tried.

Nevertheless, his case of nerves was building, and of course, it was his own bloody fault. Merlin, if only... Oh hell, no point in playing that game. It was what it was. He would do what he must and hope for the best. Maybe, if he were very lucky, Granger would consider forgiving him in about a decade.


	5. Chapter 5

20th June  
Friday evening  
Midsummer

 

Malfoy Manor glittered as brilliantly as the star-studded sky overhead on this balmy Midsummer night. The Great Hall was alive with colour and music and laughter, as throngs of guests moved about the room, drinks and small plates of elegant finger food in hand. French doors leading to a spacious, flagstone terrace had been thrown open, and strings of faery lights winked and glowed in the velvety blackness of the shrubbery and trees.

This year’s ball would be a masque, Narcissa had decided. Half the fun would be in the novelty and ingenuity of the costume designs, which had to be created using magical means, and the other half in trying to guess who or what everyone was supposed to be. She had already decided that she would go as the Queen of Hearts, Mr. Dodgson’s magical **Alice in Wonderland** being one of her favourite books as a child. No doubt Lucius would balk at being the King. But she felt sure she would manage to persuade him eventually. She had a marvellously dashing floor-length cloak of deepest scarlet for him that she knew would catch his eye.

The party had begun promptly at eight, with a steady stream of guests arriving both by Floo and Apparition. The effect of the latter was rather disconcerting at times, as knights and knaves, huntsmen and courtesans suddenly materialised with a _pop_ alongside those who had already arrived.

When Draco arrived at Hermione’s flat to collect her, he hadn’t known what to expect. Her choice of costume had been a well-kept secret, and so he had decided to do the same and surprise her as well. They had agreed that he would call for her at eight, thus arriving fashionably late (by wizarding standards), and at the appointed hour, he had appeared in her back garden. Knocking twice, he stepped back into the shadows to wait. A moment later, the door opened, Hermione appeared, and Draco's breath caught in his throat.

She was a vision in a diaphanous gown of palest, sea-foam green that fell to the floor and trailed behind her in a long, frothy train. Both the neckline and the back were cut daringly low and her shoulders were bared, though the bodice and long sleeves were close fitting. Threaded into the semi-sheer gown were tiny flowers, leaves and vines, dotted with clusters of sparkling stars. Beneath, she wore a flesh-coloured body stocking, giving the titillating effect that she wore nothing at all. Her hair looked strangely wild, its curls and waves woven through with the same tiny flowers and leaves. Gossamer etchings of flowering vines and leaves snaked around her forehead and cheekbones in artfully applied face paint. On her feet were slippers so delicately transparent that they might have been made of glass. She looked like a wood nymph, breathtaking and ethereal and Otherworldly.

“Guess who I am,” she said, smiling playfully and raising a leafy mask up to her eyes, then moving just near enough that Draco could smell her perfume. Its scent was as lushly evocative as the gown she wore, and he found himself sniffing appreciatively, utterly transfixed and awestruck, rooted dumbly to the spot. When she began to laugh, he was shaken out of his reverie at last. 

“Clearly, a creature of the forest,” he began, and she nodded. “A bloody gorgeous one, too. Come over here!” he commanded, reaching eagerly for her. 

She danced lightly out of his reach, shaking a finger teasingly. “Ah ah. First you guess.”

Draco looked at her and thought hard. And then suddenly, he knew. How had he not guessed right from the off?

“You’re the Faerie Queen, yeah? Titania!” His grin was smugly triumphant.

“Right!” Hermione clapped her hands together, delighted. “I’m so glad you worked it out. Means that others will too, eventually. I thought, how perfect, really, to be Titania, considering what day we’re celebrating.” Her smile deepened, turning provocative. “You can come closer now, you know.”

Draco chuckled and shook his head. “Not quite yet. Two can play at that game. You guess now.”

Hermione frowned in concentration, walking all around Draco and studying him closely, head to foot. He presented an intriguing and quite fetching picture. Seriously hot, in fact. A flowing black shirt, open at the throat and showing a nice bit of bare chest, had been paired with matching breeches so close-fitting that very little had been left to the imagination. This she observed quite happily upon a leisurely inspection from all angles. An ornate codpiece both covered his rather generous bits and drew attention to them at the same time. High leather boots, cuffed at the top and rising up over the knee, completed the basic outfit. In addition, he wore a cutlass and a pistol, his wand in a thigh holster (oh gods, those lovely thighs!) and a small, gold hoop in his left ear. On his head was a rakish black silk bandanna, his longish, pale hair visible at the back in a small ponytail. A black eye mask covered the upper half of his face.

“Brilliant! The Dread Pirate Roberts, right? Oh, wait, you don’t know who that is, do you,” she murmured, still unable to tear her eyes away. “Well, whoever you are, you look absolutely wonderful!”

Doffing an imaginary hat in a low, courtly bow, he smiled expansively. “Thank you, milady. As do you. But beware. I might just take it into my head to abscond with a beautiful lady such as yourself...” He waggled his eyebrows suggestively. “For nefarious purposes!” 

By way of reply, Hermione walked up to him, the question of his identity forgotten. Stopping only when a bare inch of space was left between them, she rose on her tiptoes. “I’m all yours,” she whispered, leaning in to give him a sweet and leisurely kiss on the mouth. One kiss became two and then three.

“Let’s just stay here instead, shall we?” he murmured between kisses, intoxicated with her perfume and the soft sweetness and delicacy of her mouth, her skin, her hair, all of her. “We can make our own Midsummer party.”

Hermione giggled softly. “Afraid we can’t, Malfoy. We’re expected. It is your parents’ party, after all. We have to go.”

With a wistful sigh, Draco held out his arm. “I suppose. Well... shall we?”

Looping her arm through his, Hermione shut her eyes against the dizzying effects that Apparition invariably had on her, and a moment later, they vanished.

 

*

 

Ninety minutes later

The food and drink had been superb and the dancing simply divine. Well, mostly. It had taken some effort for Hermione to remember not to step on the train of her gown, and twice, the heel of her shoe had caught on it, inviting near disaster. Thankfully, she’d managed not to fall flat on her face, but only just. Having persevered, she now felt fairly confident that she’d got the hang of it, enough so that when Draco pressed her into his arms for yet another dance, she was ready and more than willing. 

Watching them from a corner of the room closest to the bar, Astoria Greengrass fumed quietly behind her mask. How the hell could they be here _together?_ This was not at all the outcome she’d been led to expect, if Pansy could be believed. Obviously, Hermione Granger was not nearly as clever or tenacious as she was alleged to be, or Draco would have grown fed up with her long ago. Apparently, she’d failed at her objective, more’s the pity. It had been sweet indeed to imagine Draco getting his comeuppance for a change, finding out what it felt like to be toyed with. Instead, and far worse still, he appeared to have succeeded at his, because here they were, dancing together as if on a bloody cloud, identical expressions of bliss on their faces. The miserable little wanker would end up having it all. And where was she, the woman who should have been in Draco Malfoy’s arms? In a corner, dressed as a saucy French lady’s maid and drinking alone. 

Well, Astoria decided morosely, as long as she was going to be drinking alone, she might as well enjoy it. With some effort, she launched herself in the direction of the bar, intent on procuring yet another very large glass of punch. Marvellous recipe this year, she thought distractedly, setting her empty glass on the bar counter with a bang. Another round of that lovely stuff would be just the ticket. 

Her drink refreshed, she wove through the crowds, a bit the worse for wear as the alcohol fired her veins. Finally, she settled herself in an open spot against the wall, which thankfully had stopped moving by itself by then, sipping her drink and peering out at the crowd of happy revellers. But she had eyes for only two: the dashing pirate in black and his lady, the faerie queen. 

There must be something she could do. Because this was plainly unacceptable. She was being publicly humiliated. It didn’t matter that she and Draco had ended their engagement a full year earlier. Everybody in this room knew they’d been betrothed and had had every expectation that by this time, a wedding would have taken place and she would be Mrs. Malfoy junior. She could see the pitying glances as the old biddies (and the young ones as well!) would drop their eyes first to the finger where once a rather fabulous diamond surrounded by sapphires had been, and then shake their heads sorrowfully. 

Well, she did not need anybody’s pity, least of all those interfering old crones her mother was friends with. That lot could choke on their own pearls for all she cared. She didn’t even want her sister Daphne’s sympathy. It wasn’t real sympathy anyway, more like poorly disguised relief that after all, her younger sister wouldn’t be making a brilliant match and marrying before she did. Her engagement to Draco had always been salt in an ongoing wound for Daphne, and Astoria knew it. Well, Astoria thought with a shrug and a toss of her head, could she help it that she was younger and far prettier than her sister? 

And then suddenly, Astoria knew precisely what she could do – and, brilliant plan that it was, it would accomplish a dual purpose: not only would it make her feel a hell of a lot better, but it would also squash any hopes, once and for all, of a future between her ex and Hermione Granger. A little truth-telling was in order, Astoria decided, and there was no time like the present, especially as she had just noticed Hermione excusing herself from Draco with a sickeningly fond kiss and heading towards the powder room.

Hermione was just leaning in close to the large gilt mirror to freshen her lipstick when Astoria entered the spacious powder room. The sudden appearance of the other girl’s reflection behind Hermione was startling, and she jumped a bit, laughing self-consciously.

“Gorgeous costume,” Astoria remarked flatly, without preamble or any discernible warmth. “You look marvellous.”

“Thanks,” Hermione replied uncertainly. What did Astoria Greengrass want from her, anyway? This conversation was already feeling weird and they’d hardly said anything yet. “You too.”

A couple of moments passed in awkward silence as both girls touched up their makeup and checked their hair, Hermione studiously avoiding looking at Astoria. On the other hand, Astoria was making a point of staring quite blatantly at Hermione. 

“Was there something you wanted?” Hermione asked at last, no longer able to contain herself. “Can I do something for you?”

“Oh no,” Astoria replied breezily, putting a lick of spit on her fingertips and then patting at a curl next to her left ear. “It’s what I can do for _you._ ”

Hermione raised a sceptical eyebrow and waited silently.

“You see,” Astoria went on blithely, “I happen to be in possession of a piece of information you just might find...” She paused. “ _…enlightening_.”

“Go on,” Hermione said evenly. She did not like the sound of this, and Astoria was already looking far too smug and gleeful.

“You and Draco have been spending quite a lot of time together lately, isn’t that right?”

Hermione nodded, wary. 

“And… you’re convinced that his feelings are genuine?”

“Are you suggesting they’re not?” Hermione asked sharply.

Astoria gave a graceful shrug. “No clue, darling. All I know is, he’s had an agenda all this time. So that he could get ahead at his job, you see.”

“What sort of agenda?” Hermione’s eyes had narrowed and her mouth was now a tight, thin line.

Astoria laughed lightly, a tinkling sound that was just a trifle discordant. “Well, that much I can tell you. You know, I assume, that he works for Malfoy Enterprises, in the advertising department.” She paused for Hermione’s guarded nod of acknowledgment and then continued.

“Well, he had to prove that he knows and understands women in order to win a certain account and someday, a promotion, so he bet his father that he could make a woman fall in love with him by tonight. As proof, you see. Looking at you, it would appear that he has succeeded, and rather spectacularly too. Oh!” Astoria exclaimed suddenly, her hands flying to her face in feigned dismay. “But of course, that must mean he doesn’t actually care a fig about _you._ I really do think, though,” she rattled on, “that he ought to thank you for helping him get this career break. It’s the very least he can do.”

With that, Astoria smiled basely, and with a light, little wave, she was gone, leaving Hermione to sink into the richly upholstered chair by the vanity, stunned.

Meanwhile, Draco was beginning to wonder what was taking Hermione so long. It had been a good fifteen minutes already, and surely no woman needed that much time in the powder room. Unless, of course, she’d become ill. Maybe it was a case of too much drink mixing with the very rich food, and it had hit her suddenly. After all, she’d been under the weather the past few days. Perhaps she was still getting over whatever it was she’d had.

He had just taken a couple of steps in the direction of the powder room when he heard his name being called. Turning, he spotted Pansy hurrying towards him, smiling.

“Ugh, I’m late as usual!” she puffed, smoothing her hair and then leaning in for the obligatory peck on the cheek from him. “Gosh, you look amazing! Somebody famous? Captain Hook, maybe?”

Draco grinned. “Possibly. Hook did cross my mind. Or perhaps just your average, run-of-the-mill buccaneer: dashing, devastatingly handsome and sexy, and lethal with a sword. You?”

Pansy flushed lightly and gave a careless, little laugh, fanning out the skirt of her long, star-and-moon-spangled frock and doing a half-twirl. “Shame on you! Can’t you tell? I’m meant to be Morgan LeFay. My date is here somewhere. He’s supposed to be Arthur. I came straight from the office and we arranged to meet here.” Craning her neck, she did a quick scan of the crowd and then shrugged. “I’m sure he’s around somewhere. I’ll find him in a minute.”

“Who’s your date?” Draco asked conversationally, genuinely curious.

“Ronald Weasley,” Pansy replied, her blush deepening. “Don’t you dare say a word, Draco Malfoy! I like Ron. I really do. We’ve been seeing each other for a few months now. He’s really quite nice now that he’s grown up a bit.” Ignoring Draco’s smirk, she poked his arm. “So who are you here with? Anyone I know?”

Draco gave her a slow, enigmatic smile. “Not saying. You’ll see soon enough. I must say, though, I am having a much better time tonight than at the last big party we were at.” He glanced at her slyly. “You had one of your writers covering that one, remember? For your next issue.”

Pansy nodded. “Right. I assigned that event to Hermione Granger. But just between you and me, she wasn’t really there for that reason.”

“No?” Draco murmured absently, his attention on the powder room door, which still had not opened. What in Merlin’s name was taking Hermione so long?

“Nope. Actually, she was doing preliminary research for a piece she’s working on called ‘How to Lose a Man in Ten Days.’” Pansy smiled gleefully. “It’s going to be quite brilliant.”

“Oh yes?” Draco was still only half listening. It had been fully twenty minutes and Hermione still hadn’t reappeared. This was becoming ridiculous. He really needed to go and see if she was all right. He did another slow scan of the crowd. 

“Yes. Her idea was to start dating a bloke, get him wrapped round her little finger, and then do all the things women so often do that wind up driving men away. Her theory is that women themselves are often to blame for the way a potential relationship goes belly up, because of insecure, overly demanding behaviour. So this article is really a sort of ‘how to’ in reverse: how _not_ to behave if you want to keep your man. See? Brilliant!” Pansy folded her arms in satisfaction, nodding to herself.

It was as if Draco had just woken up, because now, hearing those final few sentences, he did a slow turn in Pansy’s direction, his face a stiffened mask of disbelief. 

“And did she happen to tell you who the man in question was? The one she tested her little theory on?” he asked slowly, his voice low and tense, edged with anger.

Pansy was confused. Where had this hostility come from all of a sudden? Unless... _oh gods_...

“No,” she said hastily. “She never told me. I think she plans to refer to him as Mr. X to protect his identity.”

“Jolly decent of her,” Draco muttered, fists clenching and a muscle pulsing in his jaw as he turned away. 

He’d been played. He’d been fucking _played._ How the hell could Hermione have done something so manipulative? Hermione Granger of all people, someone he’d always believed was above reproach where basic decency and honesty were concerned. And now, things he’d wondered about in passing began to make a weird, twisted sort of sense, all those things she’d done that had seemed unsurprising at first but then, over time, increasingly over the top and out of character for someone like her: taking over his kitchen, re-organising his books, defacing his broom, inundating his bathroom with all those girly products, sending those increasingly hysterical owl messages, her heightened emotionalism in general – and starting the whole thing off by fucking leaving her purse so he’d find it and she’d have to come back, for fuck’s sake! And being an idiot, he’d excused all of it, choosing instead to rationalise what hadn’t really made much sense to him.

Well, hmm. To be fair, it had been rather a bit more than just being an idiot, hadn’t it. He’d chosen deliberately to find ways to explain her behaviour because it had been vital that he not rock the boat, as it were. He’d needed to keep the relationship going at all costs, because if it fell apart, so did his shot at the Sidhe account, and, down the road, consideration for the position of department head. Stupidly, he’d pinned an awful lot on one thing, that bloody boast he’d made. So he’d hung on despite all she had done, accepting what under normal circumstances would have driven him to call it quits. The painful truth was, he’d used her no less than she’d used him.

What an irony. It would have been comical, had it not been so fucking ludicrous. And where did all this leave him now? He didn’t have a clue. 

Just then, the door to the powder room opened slowly, and Hermione emerged. She looked terrible, her eyes and nose swollen and red. She’d obviously been crying, but the look she gave him when their eyes met across the room was anything but sorrowful. He saw pure, cold fury.

The righteous anger in her eyes rekindled his own, and Draco marched towards Hermione, taking her firmly by the elbow.

“Just what do you think you’re doing, Malfoy?” she hissed, trying to yank her arm out of his grasp. 

“Come with me,” he replied curtly, striding towards the French doors and pulling her along. “We have to talk. _Now_.”

“Too right we do!” she muttered, still struggling to free herself from his grip. “ _Let. Me. GO._ ”

The distance they covered was fortunately not a very long one, because those guests closest to them were staring as they passed and wondering what could have transpired to turn the starry-eyed couple on the dance floor into two people glaring murderously at each other. From across the room, Narcissa watched in deepest alarm, her heart sinking. Things had been going so well! What on earth could have happened?

Once on the terrace, Draco closed the doors behind them and then turned to face Hermione. Her eyes were blazing, but he had now reached a place of icy, remote calm. 

“How could you?!” they exclaimed in unison, and then Hermione jerked her arm away at last, facing him with angry tears welling up despite her efforts to keep them at bay. 

“You used me, Malfoy! You were never in love with me, were you! I was just the means for you to land an account and prove yourself to your father! I suppose it was easy, wasn’t it, charming me and watching me fall for you, all the while knowing that you didn’t reciprocate my feelings! Because of course, you didn’t need to, did you! It didn’t matter that you got me to open up, make myself vulnerable, give myself to you! All that was just collateral damage, yeah? You took my heart and then you...” Her bottom lip quivered and she gulped convulsively, fighting the tears. “... you threw it in the rubbish bin!”

She was crying in earnest now, occasionally wiping the tears away with rough, impatient fingers and smearing the face paint she’d applied so painstakingly. Smudges of dark green and brown speckled her cheeks.

“What about you, then, eh?” he spat, steeling himself against the sight of her crumpled face. “Your hypocrisy is astonishing! Oh yes, I know all about the article. ‘How to lose a man in ten days’! _You_ used _me_ , Granger! All that bullshit about vulnerability and giving yourself… You never had any intention of taking our relationship seriously, did you! What about _my_ heart? I was just the guinea pig for your experiment. Fucking hell, talk about being cold, calculating, and manipulative! Darling, you wrote the book! And what about all that shit you pulled in my flat! You ruined my new broom. Thought that was cute, did you? I can’t find a book when I want it. They’re never where they should be. Hell, my bathroom smells like the loo in a brothel!”

At that, Hermione’s eyes grew very wide, and she opened her mouth to launch into a heated retort, but Draco nipped in neatly ahead of her. 

“Don’t get your knickers in a twist. You know it’s true. Merlin, you really laid it on thick, didn’t you! You really had me going. And I bought into all of it, more fool me. Well, no more. I’ve had it. We’re done.”

“Fine!”

“Fine!” 

They stood looking daggers at each other, arms crossed defiantly. Suddenly, there didn’t seem to be anything left to say. With a final sniffle, Hermione wiped her tears with the heel of her hand and marched away, through the French doors and out of his life.

He ought to have felt triumphant at that moment. He had squashed her as neatly as a bug. Whatever charges she had levelled at him, he had answered with ones of his own in a way that had silenced her quite thoroughly. So, then, why did he feel as if a large piece of his heart had just died in his chest? Why did his victory feel so bloody hollow? 

Why had he not said the one thing he’d really _needed_ to say to her? Precisely the opposite message had spewed from his mouth instead, seemingly of its own accord.

He’d lost everything now, irretrievably. A chance at the Sidhe account, the possibility of an eventual promotion, and worst of all, Hermione. Without her, the rest of it was just so much pointless bullshit, anyway. He realised that now. This was a cock-up so monumental, he didn’t have the first clue how to fix it. “I’m sorry” just seemed woefully, pathetically inadequate. She wouldn’t listen anyway, even if he tried.

“Malfoy,” he told himself grimly, “you are a fucking arsehole. A total dick.”

 

*

 

Midnight

Hermione sat hunched miserably in the middle of her bed, wrapped up in the quilt she and Draco had been happily tangled in together only a few nights earlier. She could still smell his scent in the fabric. Hard to imagine that something could be comforting and yet such a source of pain, all at the same time. Even harder to imagine that such unalloyed misery could be endured. She was finding it hard even to breathe. Every breath caught in her throat like a jagged knife point.

She ought to have known that he’d find out somehow. Who had told him? Not that it mattered anymore. Except that she’d hoped to soften the blow of her deception by confessing that she’d fallen in love with him for real, despite all plans and intentions to the contrary. Because she had. She loved him. And now, she’d be lucky if he ever spoke to her again. Like the proverbial boy who cried wolf, she had misrepresented herself far too convincingly. He would never believe her now, much less trust her. Instead, he’d always wonder if there were some hidden agenda behind her words or deeds.

Well, there was just one thing she could still do at this point, though she didn’t put much stock in it. But at least it was honest. And hopefully, if he read her words, he would begin to understand and maybe even forgive her someday.

Pulling a rectangular box from her desk drawer, she took out a parchment she’d been working on, dipped her quill in the inkpot, and began to write.

 

*

 

23 June  
Monday morning

The manuscript arrived by special messenger owl promptly at ten o’clock. Pansy’s secretary hurried into her boss’s office with the parchment, which Pansy unrolled eagerly and began reading with avid attention. The content was not at all what she had expected, however, and the dramatic changes of expression her face underwent as she read were evidence of her very real surprise.

“Is it good?” her secretary, a mousy girl called Susan, asked hopefully.

Pansy sank back in her chair, the article still in her hand, and looked up at Susan. “It’s better than good. It’s remarkable, damn her. Here, see for yourself.” She thrust the parchment into her secretary’s hands. “And then get it over to Production for layout, ASAP! We’re going to feature it in our next issue! Oh, and get hold of Hermione Granger for me. I must speak with her immediately!”

After the little secretary had hurried out, Pansy rose from her chair and began pacing. “I should have known,” she muttered to herself. But then a smug little smile began tugging irrepressibly at her lips. Only a fool would fail to recognise the true worth of the gold mine this publication had in a writer like Hermione Granger; this article of hers proved it beyond any doubt. And Pansy Parkinson was no fool.

A few minutes later, Susan informed her boss that a Floo call had been attempted, but that Hermione was not at home and could not be reached. 

“Shit!” Pansy muttered under her breath and resumed pacing the length of her office, stopping short suddenly as another idea occurred to her. 

When her head materialised in Draco’s hearth in a sudden burst of green flames, he was sitting dejectedly on his sofa, the cup of coffee he was holding forgotten and cold. 

“Well? What do _you_ want?” he asked sullenly. 

“Have you any idea where Hermione is?” Pansy countered, ignoring his foul mood. “I need to find her right away.”

“No. I haven’t. Trust me, I’m the last person she’d share that information with,” he replied curtly. “Why do you want to know?”

“Well, she’s just turned in her article. It’s an outstanding piece, probably the best thing she’s ever done for the magazine, and I need her to know that I think so. Because she’s submitted her letter of resignation along with it, and I’ve got to stop her doing anything rash.” _Like taking another job_. Pansy was looking a bit desperate now.

Draco sat up a little straighter. “Why the hell would she do that?”

“We had a deal, see. She’s been wanting to write more serious pieces for quite some time, but I haven’t allowed it because her ‘how to’ articles have been so phenomenally successful. I agreed to allow her to branch out, _if_ her ‘How to Lose a Man in Ten Days’ article were a success. However, she...” Pansy stopped abruptly and looked at Draco, her eyes widening. “You don’t have any idea what she turned in, do you...You’ve no idea what she actually wrote!”

He shrugged carelessly. “What’s the difference? All I know is, I was the lab rat. I don’t want to know the details.”

“Oh, but...” Pansy began. “Look, just read it. You need to see for yourself.” Thrusting a hand through the flames, she dropped a piece of parchment, lightly singed, onto the floor before the hearth. “Read it, Draco!” she repeated, and then disappeared in the flames.

Getting stiffly to his feet, for he had been sitting there morosely for quite some time, Draco bent and plucked the parchment from the floor and then flopped down on the sofa once again. 

“ ‘How to Lose A Man in Ten Days,’ by Hermione Granger,” he read.

“I began this project with the premise that we women often bring disaster upon ourselves in relationships with men. Our behaviour is often absurdly myopic. We can only see our own needs and we are slaves to our own insecurities, and so we act on these feelings in ways that are bound to be irritating, intrusive, even threatening, and just generally distasteful to the men we fancy. 

“I still believe that this is often the case. But the lesson I learnt as a result of my little experiment was not the one I’d expected. Oh yes, I lost the man in question. Not in ten days, precisely – it was more like two weeks – and I didn’t lose him for the reasons I’d anticipated. Nevertheless, he is gone.”

The article went on to detail the events that had transpired between him and Hermione. It was almost clinical in tone, and she didn’t spare herself in any way, which made it even more painful to read. The portrait she painted of him was not exactly saintly, but it wasn’t critical either. Instead, he came across as a three-dimensional, flesh-and-blood man who had made her feel truly alive and deeply happy in the short time they’d had together, a man who had been a revelation to her. 

“Finally,” the article concluded, “I would like to say something to Mr. X. I’m so very sorry for deceiving you and leading you on. You didn’t deserve any of that, and there is nothing I regret more. I am tempted to say that had I known what you would be like once I got to know you, I would never have gone through with it. But that presupposes that if you had been another sort of man, one I wouldn’t have come to care for, I could have gone through with the experiment without a second thought. And that would have been very wrong indeed. Using another human being for any reason is wrong, no matter who that person is or what the agenda. 

“I lost you not because of my deliberately obnoxious behaviour, which you put up with valiantly, but because of a lie. You were right – I never intended to take our relationship seriously. I certainly never intended to fall in love with you. But I did. So I suppose the joke is on me, in the end. 

“Originally, I had planned to conclude that we women need to value ourselves a lot more and know that we don’t need to stoop to the sort of desperately clingy, demanding behaviour and game-playing we so often resort to. I had planned to say that we are so much better than that. And we are. But so are the men in our lives. They deserve honesty and trust from us, and if they’re grown up at all, they’ll be ready to reciprocate that. We need to give them that chance with an open and trusting heart. 

“It’s all too easy to lose someone you care for in a handful of days – in the blink of an eye, really. It’s ever so much harder to hold on and really make it work. I wish I’d had just one more day.”

 

 _I wish I’d had just one more day._

The words reverberated in his head again and again. One more day. The meaning was all too clear. It was what he’d been wishing for himself. One more day in which he could have confessed everything to her. Just a little more time in which to set things right, clear the slate. What he wouldn’t give to have the chance to start fresh and court her the way she truly deserved. To tell her the one thing he hadn’t said, the one thing that mattered more than anything else.

And now, suddenly, alarm bells began sounding in his head. Pansy had come to him precisely because she couldn’t find Hermione, who would surely have resigned her position distraught over what had happened between them and unaware that, contrary to her expectations, the article had actually been very favourably received. If she were feeling anywhere near as miserable as he was, she’d be a pretty sad case now. He had to find her.

Where would she have gone? Frantically, he racked his brain. 

In the end, it took only about ten seconds of gazing out his front windows to the public gardens beyond. Through the wrought-iron fence, he spotted her. She was sitting on a bench near a large stone sarcophagus. Though her back was to him, he’d have recognised her anywhere. Sadly, he noted that her shoulders were slumped in a posture of defeat and her head was bowed. And then, she turned her head to look back at his house, and the expression on her face was so pitiful that it broke his heart.

Five seconds later, he was out the door and running towards her. 

Neither could speak for the rush of emotions that overcame them both in the first few moments in which they simply clung to each other. And then the words came in a flood, each of them echoing the other’s expressions of profound regret and apology. 

At last, Draco simply pulled Hermione close and they held each other quietly.

“I love you,” he told her, even though he’d already said it a thousand times. It was a mantra, the most potent of cleansing spells. “I love you, I love you, I love you.” He laughed a little bit, embarrassed at such an open display of his feelings and yet tremendously, ridiculously pleased and elated. 

Hermione giggled, hugging him as tightly as she could manage. “Good. You’d better. Or I’ll be forced to have a retraction printed and send you a poison pen letter instead. By the way, I love you too, Malfoy. More than anything.”

“Reckon you can start calling me Draco now and then, if you fancy it,” he teased, smiling fondly as he slung an arm around her shoulders and they walked together through the gardens towards his front door. “I’d like that.”

 

 

 

FIN

 

 

 

  
[](http://s136.photobucket.com/user/miriamele3/media/DHr/HermionesPembridgeCrescenthouse.jpeg.html)  
Hermione’s Pembridge Crescent home in Notting Hill—her studio flat is in the rear of the house, top floor

[](http://s136.photobucket.com/user/miriamele3/media/DHr/Hermionesstudioflat.jpg.html)  
Hermione’s studio flat

[](http://s136.photobucket.com/user/miriamele3/media/DHr/dc985837-25e9-4240-afd2-2b8e35384d52.jpg.html)  
her small garden

[](http://s136.photobucket.com/user/miriamele3/media/DHr/DracosWrenSttownhouse.jpg.html)  
Draco’s townhouse in Wren Street, Bloomsbury (yellow door)

[](http://s136.photobucket.com/user/miriamele3/media/DHr/Dracossittingroom.jpg.html)  
his sitting room

[](http://s136.photobucket.com/user/miriamele3/media/DHr/Dracoslibrary.jpg.html)  
his study

[](http://s136.photobucket.com/user/miriamele3/media/DHr/Dracoskitchen.jpg.html)  
his kitchen

[](http://s136.photobucket.com/user/miriamele3/media/DHr/Dracosbedroom.jpg.html)  
the master bedroom

[](http://s136.photobucket.com/user/miriamele3/media/DHr/c22c213c-9220-4f62-9534-3afa177dd3ea.jpg.html)  
a view of the garden

 

 

 

St Andrews Gardens, Wren Street

 

[](http://s136.photobucket.com/user/miriamele3/media/Dramione%20fic%20pics/656.jpg.html) [](http://s136.photobucket.com/user/miriamele3/media/Dramione%20fic%20pics/1229140_e103f2ea-1.jpg.html)

 

 

 

The Portobello Road outdoor market, Notting Hill, London

 

[](http://s136.photobucket.com/user/miriamele3/media/DHr/image003.jpg.html)[](http://s136.photobucket.com/user/miriamele3/media/DHr/portobello-road-market-london.jpg.html)[](http://s136.photobucket.com/user/miriamele3/media/DHr/Flowers-at-Portobello-Market-Notting-Hill.jpg.html)[](http://s136.photobucket.com/user/miriamele3/media/DHr/PortobelloRoad-PLB-25032012-magazine-1.jpg.html)[](http://s136.photobucket.com/user/miriamele3/media/DHr/portobello-road.jpg.html)[](http://s136.photobucket.com/user/miriamele3/media/DHr/Portobello-Antiques-Market.jpg.html)[](http://s136.photobucket.com/user/miriamele3/media/DHr/portobello2.jpg.html)[](http://s136.photobucket.com/user/miriamele3/media/DHr/ecd79a9f-b80b-4450-872c-cd94170bc328.jpg.html)[](http://s136.photobucket.com/user/miriamele3/media/DHr/b06474f4-a4ba-4ddf-a717-59ca458c8626.jpg.html)[](http://s136.photobucket.com/user/miriamele3/media/DHr/PortobelloRdcakes.png.html)[](http://s136.photobucket.com/user/miriamele3/media/DHr/portobello-road-market-1-1.jpg.html)[](http://s136.photobucket.com/user/miriamele3/media/miriamele3001/6a00d83451b93f69e200e5527ccb548833-800pi.jpg.html)[](http://s136.photobucket.com/user/miriamele3/media/DHr/books-for-cooks.jpg.html)  
Books for Cooks, where Hermione and Draco had lunch on Day One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks, as ever, to my extraordinary beta and friend, mister_otter. *hugs, Carol*
> 
> "Oh, what a tangled web we weave, when first we practise to deceive" – from "Marmion," by Sir Walter Scott.
> 
>  _Sidhe_ – Pronounced "shee," the term refers to the Fair Folk of Ireland who live underground in fairy mounds and are of the Otherworld; they are also known as the Tuatha Dé Danann. I liked the idea of a contemporary fashion designer in the wizarding world who would take the name as his or her own.
> 
> Shandy – a popular summer drink combining lemonade and beer.
> 
> Summer Shandy
> 
> Serves 4
> 
> Ingredients:
> 
> 1/2 cup fresh squeezed lemon juice  
> 1/2 cup superfine sugar  
> 1 cup water  
> 1/2 cup sparkling water  
> 4 (12 ounce) bottles of chilled Hefeweizenn (or beer of choice)
> 
> Directions:
> 
> 1\. Place lemon juice and sugar into a pitcher and stir. Add waters and continue to stir until sugar dissolves.  
> 2\. Pour beer into chilled pint glasses and top each with a generous splash of sparkling lemonade. Serve.
> 
> http://www.spoonforkbacon.com/2013/07/summer-shandy/


End file.
